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PRESENTED BY 



RANTHORPE. 



J'avais entrepris une lutte insenste ; je combattais la mis^re avec ma plume. 

H de Balzac. 

Wie verfiihrt die Natur, um Hohes und Niedres im Menschen 
Zu verbinden ? Sie stellt Eitelkeit zwischen hinein ! 

G5THB. 



LONDON: 

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND. 

MDCCCXLVII. 



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C. WHITING, BEAUEORT HOUSE, STRAND. 

Gift 
W. L v Shoemaker 

J S '06 




TO HER 

WHO HAS LIGHTENED THE BURDEN OF AN ANXIOUS LIFE, 
THIS "WORK IS INSCRIBED BY 

HER HUSBAND. 



PREFACE. 

Ranthorpe was written five years ago. 

No one will doubt that it has in many respects profited 

by the delay in publication; yet it has not escaped the 

evil of that tendency, 

To add and alter many times, 
Till all be ripe and rotten, 

of which the most fastidious of contemporary poets com- 
plains ; and which made Schiller question the advantage 
of Horace's celebrated nonum prematur in annum. So 
that when I state that the one volume now presented to 
the public was originally three, the critic will easily un- 
derstand how certain faults of construction, and sins against 
Vart de conter, arose from so great a change in the structure 
and proportions of the whole. Of these faults I became 
aware only when too late — when reading the proof 
sheets ; and all which now remains is to confess and 
apologise. 



VI PREFACE. 

That the faults are not more numerous is owing to the 
admirable criticisms of two eminent friends, who paid me 
the compliment of being frankly severe on the work sub- 
mitted to their judgment. Sensible of the kindness in 
their severity, I have made them — what, for an author, 
must be considered as a magnificent acknowledgement — 
I have adopted all their suggestions ! 

London, April, 1847. 



CONTENTS. 

BOOK I. 

THE POET'S FIRST STRUGGLES. 

PAGE 

Chapter I— The Three Students 3 

II.— Isola 11 

III.— Early Struggles 16 

IV. — Le Premier Pas 25 

V. — Ranthorpe becomes a Journalist 31 

VI.— -The Orphans 39 

BOOK II. 

THE LION. 

Chapter I.— The Literary Lion 49 

H.— The Poet out in the World 57 

HI.— The Medical Student 62 

IV.— The Lovers' Meeting 66 

V.— First Lessons of Adversity 74 

VI.— The Two Sisters 79 

VII.— Wynton's Story 83 

VIII.— Poor Isola 99 

BOOK III. 

THE UNSUCCESSFUL AUTHOR. 

Chapter I. — The Aristocracy of Intellect 107 

II. — PriezpourLui 112 

III. — Expiation 115 

IV. — New Hopes 124 

V.— The Reading of the Play 129 

VI. — Cosa Scabrosa 134 

VII. — The Dramatist with the Manager 138 

VIII.— Rehearsals 145 

IX.— The Tragedy is Performed 150 

X. — Aspiration and Inspiration 159 

XL— Despair 164 



Vlli CONTENTS. 



BOOK IV. 

STRUGGLES WITH CIRCUMSTANCE. 

PAGE 

Chapter I.— Isola in her Retreat 177 

II.— The Artist 184 

HI.— Woman's Life 188 

IV.— The Woof is Weaving 195 

V.— Night of the Murder 206 

VI.— The Pursuit 215 

VEL— The Turning Point 225 

VIIL— The Miseries of Genius 229 

BOOK V. 
ISOLA. 

Chapter I.— The Hawbuckes 239 

II.— Jealousy 259 

in.— The Surgeon , 271 

IV. — Yes: Harry is in Love 275 

V.— The Betrothment 278 

VI.— The Birthday 284 

VH.— The Dream 291 

Vin. — Waking Dreams and Waking Sadness 302 

LX.— The Sacrifice 307 

X. — Reconciliation 312 

XI. — Love is Blind; Couch not his Eyes 318 

Xn.— Denouement 328 

XIII. —The Lovers 333 

XIV.— The Course of True Love 338 

XV— Peal the Marriage Bells 347 

Epilogue 349 



RANTHORPE. 



BOOK I. 

THE POET'S FIRST STRUGGLES. 

How like a younker, or a prodigal, 

The scarfed bark puts from her native bay ! 

Shakspeare. 

Mir gliiht die ganze Seele bei dem Gedankeri endlich einmal 
aufzutreten, und die Menschen in das Herz hinein zu reden, 
was sie sich so lange zu horen sehnen. — Gothe. 



RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE THREE STUDENTS. 

By solemn vision and bright silver stream 

His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 

And sound from the vast earth and ambient air 

Sent to his heart the choicest impulses. 

Shelley. 

It was a cold November night. Holborn was noisy, 
murky, and sloppy. A drizzling rain descended through 
the haze: the chilling haze of a London winter night. 
Streams of brilliant gas, reflected from gilded lamps and 
pillars in those splendid mockeries named gin-palaces, 
flashed at intervals through the darkness, calling attention 
to the orgies there perpetrated: where brutal violence, 
sodden depravity, low cunning, vice in all its hideousness, 
and poverty in its desperate wretchedness, had assembled 
to snatch a moment's delirium or a moment's oblivion of 
the bitterness of existence. Omnibuses, cabs, waggons, and 
trucks, rolled past with ceaseless rumbling din. There were 

b2 



4 EANTHOEPE. 

the brawls of miserable women reeling from public bouses ; 
and tbe scuffles witb pickpockets emerging from Saffron 
Hill. The sloppy pavement clacked beneatb tbe feet of 
tbe crowding passers-by. 

Amidst this noisy, cheerless scene, standing at one of tbe 
numerous book-stalls, was a youtb of nineteen, wbo, bis 
bands and feet benumbed witb cold, bad been standing for 
balf an bour, gloating witb bungry eyes upon tbe treasures 
there displayed. He was enveloped in a camlet cloak, the 
scanty proportions of wbicb just sufficed to bide tbe po- 
verty of his garments, and to ward off tbe rain. He had 
no gloves, and bis bands were purple from the cold. His 
bat betokened the fidelity of an ancient servitor; it was 
scrupulously brushed, and shone from repeated wettings. 
In a word, the youth looked like a clerk — and was one. 

Those who looked a little closer, however, might have 
seen that there was something in this youth's face which 
belied his dress — an air of refinement and command — a 
look of the English gentleman, which is peculiar to our 
nation, and to one class in that nation. The mouth was 
very remarkable: it was voluptuous, and yet refined; full, 
yet delicate — the mouth of a poet. The eyes were of a 
deep blue ; long and somewhat languishing, and shaded 
with the sweetest fringe imaginable. The forehead was 
delicately cut; the chin weak and faltering. A phy- 
siognomist would at once have pronounced him to be a 
remarkable person ; but somewhat deficient in strength of 
will. 

This youth was Percy Ranthorpe. 

His eyes wandered over the titles of the volumes so 
temptingly displayed; but nothing came within reach of 
bis finances. His was a Barmecide feast; be cared not 
'for rare editions, large paper copies, or sumptuous bindings* 



THE THREE STUDENTS. 5 

His hunger was for knowledge ; lie had a passion for books 
— no matter what editions, what bindings; he cared not 
even whether they had covers at all. He only thought of 
the price. 

After enviously opening many a volume ; with a secret 
consciousness that his looking at the price was all a mag- 
nificent juggle with himself, as he was certain not to be 
able to pay it, yet still pleased with even an imaginary 
purchase ; he at last came to a tub filled with dirty ancient 
books. From this tub rose a stick, bearing a piece of card- 
board, on which was written: 

ALL THESE BOOKS 6d. THE VOL. 

Here possibilities merged into actualities : he could pur- 
chase : to the length of sixpence he could indulge ! Ac- 
cordingly, he began to handle the volumes with a sterner 
and more business-like air. But he was long in making a 
choice. 

While thus engaged, another young man stopped at 
the stall. Percy made room for him ; but the new-comer 
only stopped to light a cigar at the jet of gas; and was about 
to move on, when he was accosted rather boisterously by a 
third. 

u Hollo ! Harry, is that you ? Well, how are you, old 
brick?" 

" How are you, Oliver ? What have you been doing 
with yourself for the last century ?" 

"Oh! flaring up!" 

" That of course. I was at the masquerade last night — 
so jolly drunk !" This Harry uttered with the compla- 
cency which young men often assume when speaking of 
their vices; and Percy looked up involuntarily, but soon 
continued his search, though unable to avoid hearing 
their conversation. 



6 KANTHORPE. 

" Oliver, are you going to the Cider Cellars to-night?" 

" Don't know. Short of tin. Spent a couple of sove- 
reigns last night." 

Two sovereigns in senseless dissipation, thought Percy, 
and with two sovereigns how many books might he have 
bought ! 

He again looked up, and this time scanned the friends 
more closely. They were evidently two medical students ; 
and as they are to play important parts in this drama, I 
may as well complete Percy's observations, and briefly 
paint their portraits for the reader's benefit. 

Harry Cavendish was a student of St. George's. In 
his appearance there was something at once prepos- 
sessing and repulsive: a mixture of the gentleman and 
the Mohock. His coal-black hair was trained into 
one long curl on either side of his cheeks ; thick black 
moustaches graced or disgraced his upper lip ; his hat was 
slightly cocked to look jaunty; he carried a formidable 
stick; and smelt strongly of tobacco. Yet his dark eye was 
full of fire and intelligence; his open laughing face was 
indicative of malicious mirth and frankness; and the reso- 
lution about his brow, and sensibility about his mouth, 
redeemed his slang appearance, and showed the superior 
being, beneath the unprepossessing exterior. 

Oliver Thornton belonged to the Middlesex Hospital. 
He was heavy and clownish-looking; with a large, pale, 
sensual, and rather placid countenance, the predominant 
expression of which was sleepiness, strangely mixed with 
cunning. It seemed as if his small twinkling eyes were 
in perpetual struggle with the somnolent disposition of his 
other features. It was a thoroughly disagreeable face. 

The two students — " arcades ambo — blackguards both'' 
— walked on, and Percy felt quite relieved by their ab- 
sence. Their whole tone was such as could not but be 



THE THREE STUDENTS. 7 

displeasing to Mm ; and he sighed to think of their money 
squandered and time lost, both of which, had he possessed 
them, would have made him the happiest of men ! 

He had his sixpence, however, and books were before 
him. An odd volume of Shelley's poems, somewhat tat- 
tered, turned up ; and now his hesitation was dispelled 
at once. He marched with it into the shop, paid his 
money with feverish delight, and hurried homewards in 
triumph. 

As he turned up King-street, his way was stopped by a 
crowd of people assembled round an athletic costermonger, 
who was beating his donkey in so brutal a manner that 
several persons were crying " Shame ! shame !" The man 
only looked fiercely in the direction of these cries, and 
recommending the interferers, in language not the most 
polished, to mind their own affairs, continued to wrench 
the mouth of the animal, whom he almost stunned with a 
heavy stick. Percy was about to spring forward, when 
he saw Harry push his way through the crowd, followed 
by Oliver. 

"What's the row? 1 ' said Harry; and on learning the 
state of matters, he went up to the costermonger and said, 
"Now then, Carrots, none of that. Is that the way you 
treat a servant and a brother ? Have you no feelings — no 
fellow feelings ?" 

" I'll split your skull if you give me any of your chaff," 
retorted the costermonger, savagely. 

" No, my friend," said Harry, coolly; " no ; you'll ex- 
cuse my contradicting you — but you won't." 

" I won't !" roared the other. 

" You must get up much earlier in the morning to do 
it, I pledge you my word. And now listen to this simple 



8 EANTHORPE. 

and familiar observation I have to make : if you don't 
cease maltreating that miserable animal, I shall first give 
you a drubbing to gratify my own feelings, and then pull 
you up before a magistrate to gratify Mr. Martin's feel- 
ings." 

At the word " drubbing" his antagonist threw down 
his stick and hat, and putting himself into a posture of 
defence exclaimed, " Come on, come on ; I'll give it 
jrer." 

Oliver endeavoured to persuade Harry to decamp ; but 
Harry took off his gloves with extreme coolness, folded 
them up, put them in his pocket, and then, without 
heeding the remonstrances of his companion, quickly 
knocked the costermonger down. A yell of derision and 
delight burst from the crowd as they saw the brute in the 
mud. They had been a little anxious before ; but the 
coolness, science, and force Harry exhibited, soon quieted 
their fears ; and the pleasure which all men feel in an ex- 
hibition of prowess was here heightened by the indigna- 
tion excited by the costermonger's brutality. 

Maddened by his fall and by the derision of the crowd, 
the ruffian started to his feet and rushed impetuously upon 
Harry, who, stepping a little aside, to avoid the shock, 
dealt him so heavy a blow that he reeled and fell sprawl- 
ing in the mud. He got up again; but he was dis- 
heartened ; he felt that he had no chance against the 
skill, coolness, and strength of his antagonist. Instead of 
renewing the attack, he skulked away to his cart, put on 
his hat amidst the laughter and gibes of the crowd which 
was now large, and taking hold of the donkey's bridle, 
moved on in sullen silence. 

Harry took out his gloves, put them on as if nothing 






THE THREE STUDENTS. 9 

had happened, and looked round for Oliver, who had 
slunk off on the first appearance of a danger in which he 
might possibly be implicated. Several people congratu- 
lated Harry, and praised him for his generosity and 
prowess. 

Percy felt as if he could have asked his pardon for the 
contempt which a little while ago he had felt for him. 
But the crowd had dispersed, and he was alone. 

He continued his walk home, now ruminating on the 
scene which had greatly affected him, and now peeping 
into his volume of Shelley, which he hugged as only a 
poor poet could have hugged it. Under more than one 
lamp-post did he stop to catch a glimpse at the poems, 
gathering in those glimpses fresh impatience for the 
whole. 

" What, more books !" reproachfully exclaimed his 
father, as he entered the room. " What he can do with 
them all, I can't think." This was said to a young girl 
who was at that moment preparing Percy's supper. 

Percy was silent. He had been so long accustomed 
to the sneers and reproaches of his father on the point, 
that though he had not ceased to feel them, he had quite 
ceased defending himself. 

" I suppose," continued Mr. Ranthorpe, " you have 
gone without dinner again to-day, to buy that trash." 

" I dined frugally, and bought this book with the 
money saved." 

" Well, if you like to starve yourself, for the sake of 
the books, that's your affair not mine," rejoined Mr. 
Ranthorpe. With this observation — his unfailing one — 
he let the matter drop. Percy exchanged a glance with 
the lovely girl before named, and in her approving, tender 



10 EANTHORPE. 

look, read a recompense. If she thought well of what he 
did, he was satisfied. 

And who was she ? asks the reader. How came she 
there ? If he has any sagacity he will at once divine that 
she is to play an important part in this drama. She is 
indeed our heroine, and must have a chapter to herself. 



ISOLA. 11 



CHAPTER II. 

ISOLA. 

S' ella ride ella piace ; s' ella parla la diletta ; s' ella tace ell' empie 
altrui d' ammirazione ; s' ella va ha grazia ; s' elle siede ha vaghezza ; 
s' ella canta ha dolcezza ; s' ella balla ha Venere in compagnia ; s' ella 
ragiona, le Muse le insegnano. 

Firenzuola: Delia Bellezza delle Donne. 

Isola Chuechill was an orphan. Her father had 
been Mr. Ranthorpe's partner and friend for many years, 
and when he died Mr. Ranthorpe took her to live with 
him, as a child. 

She was exquisitely beautiful. But her beauty was of 
that chaste severity of style which only strikes connois- 
seurs. She had few of the charms which captivate draw- 
ing-room critics ; was neither sylph-like nor sportive, 
neither sentimental nor voluptuous. Her cheeks were 
innocent both of roses and lilies. I am not aware of any 
cupids having taken up their abode in her dimples ; nor 
did I ever hear any thing of the " liquid languishment" 
of her eyes. In fact, she was a girl whom seven out of 
every ten would call " nice looking," or " well grown; 55 
without a suspicion of the other three looking upon her 
as a masterpiece of nature's cunning hand. 

Tall, finely, somewhat amply moulded, with a waist in 






12 EANTHORPE. 

perfect proportion, her walk was the walk of a goddess; 
perhaps for that reason few thought it graceful. 

From her mother — an Italian — she inherited a pale, 
olive complexion, large lustrous eyes, black hair, and a 
certain look of Raffaele's Sistine Madonna. From her 
father, the winning gentleness which softened her some- 
what stern severity of outline, and converted the statue 
into a woman. Yet, on the whole, her beauty was more 
sculpturesque than picturesque. 

Her voice was peculiar. Though musical and vibrating, 
it had that loudness common to Italians, but which in 
England, amongst a race accustomed to eat half their 
words, is regarded as ill-bred. But the clear, vibrating, 
powerful tone of Isola's voice, always seemed to me a 
witchery the more, and was not inaptly characteristic of 
her frank, large, and healthy soul. It gave some persons 
the impression of her not being feminine; and this im- 
pression was strengthened by the simplicity of a manner, 
free from all the permissible coquetry of woman. Yet 
Isola was exquisitely feminine in soul. She was woman 
in her gentleness, lovingness, singleness of purpose, and 
endurance ; only not in coquetry. 

To those whose tastes had been kept pure, who could 
distinguish truth and love it, there was an indefinable 
charm in her manner. It would have been impossible 
for the most impertinent of men to have paid her 
common-place compliments : the quiet simplicity — the 
grandeur of her direct and truthful bearing — protected 
her. 

If the reader run away with the idea that Isola was an 
imposing woman, he will be curiously misled. It is the 
fault of language that it cannot convey manner, so that 
the term " grandeur" applied to one so simple and truth- 



ISOLA. 13 

ful as Tsola, may seem ill-applied ; because it is forgotten 
that all grandeur is excessively simple. 

Her character will be seen in this story. Her accom- 
plishments were not inconsiderable, since music and 
painting were her birthright, and Dante was as much her 
childhood's companion as Shakspeare. 

Percy and Isola, living under the same roof, very 
naturally fell in love. Ignorant of the world, but 
looking forward to the future, confident that it would 
bring them the consummation of their desires, they 
plighted their vows. Nor did Mr. Ranthorpe disapprove 
of it. This seemed to him the best way of securing Isola 
a protector should he be suddenly cut off ; and he felt 
Percy would, above all men, need a good, economical, 
sensible woman for a wife, whenever he should be old 
enough and rich enough to think of one. 

Mr. Ranthorpe had a very special contempt for poets, 
and never lost an opportunity of expressing it before his 
son. He himself had been all his life a speculator ; and 
because he had pursued the chimera of making his fortune, 
he considered himself eminently a practical man. A life 
of unsuccess had failed to teach him. He had no faith in 
any thing that was not practical, that did not obviously 
lead to hard cash. His son's poetical tendencies were 
therefore regarded as alarming symptoms. The old man 
was, however, somewhat calmed when he saw Percy accept 
the miserable situation of a lawyer's clerk, and attend re- 
gularly enough to business, in spite of his devoting leisure 
hours to books and poetry. 

If his father did not understand and sympathise with 
him, Isola did. She was the confidante of all his plans; 
sympathised in all his aspirations; shared all his hopes. 
She believed with him that the volume of " Poems of the 



14 RANTHORPE. 

Affections" which he was preparing, would create for him 
a rank in the world of letters, which to them would be 
a fortune. 

It is necessary that the reader should clearly understand 
the position of our hero, which I have briefly indicated in 
the foregoing pages. It is necessary that he should see the 
poverty and ambition, the obstacles and the courage, to un- 
derstand the struggles which are about to ensue. Few men 
have been more unfavourably placed than this young law- 
yer's clerk ; none have ever had a more stirring ambition. 
He had but one friend — but one partner in his hopes. The 
rest of the world were all superbly indifferent to him and his 
aspirations ; except his father, who was indignant at them. 

Few sights are more saddening than that of a young spirit 
struggling in vain against overwhelming obstacles ; un- 
heeded, unassisted, without friends, without position, and 
without advisers. But this sight, though sad to the casual 
spectator, has another aspect to him who looks deeper. Un- 
derneath those thwarted hopes, that wild ambition, there 
breathes a free spirit of energetic action; and this activity is 
a fountain of delight, as activity always is. "We who see 
the struggling boy, and calmly measure the immensity of 
the barriers which shut him from success, we may deem him 
unhappy, because we foresee that he will be so. But we do 
not feel the rapture of his reveries — the delight in creation 
— the transports of anticipated success — transports more 
vividly felt at that period when criticism has not detected 
weakness, when experience has not chilled flushed confi- 
dence with its cold misgivings. 

The poet's desire is to "get published:" in that anticipa- 
tion lies his delight. He is the lover who is still enamoured^ 
because still unmarried. He has the world lying before 
him ; and it is plastic to his hopes : he moulds it as he wills. 



ISOLA. 15 

After publication (that marriage with, the muse !) he can 
no longer dream : he must confront reality. The world, 
before so plastic, is now a rock whereon are wrecked his 
cherished fancies. The unpublished poet mistakes his as- 
piration for inspiration. He confounds the excitement 
awakened in him by great works, with the excitement 
awakened by self-developed ideas and self-experienced 
feelings, which imperiously demand utterance. He lives 
in the circle traced by his own delusions. 

Perhaps there has been no author, whatever may have 
been his renown, who has looked back upon the early years 
of uncrowned endeavour without envying their freshness 
of spirit, virginity of soul, and boundlessness of hope. Of 
the two points in the adventure of a diver, 

One— when a beggar he prepares to plunge; 
One— when a prince he rises with the pearl.* 

the first is the happier: the confidence of the beggar 
exceeds in rapture all the triumph of the prince. The 
pearl is beggary beside the boundless wealth of imagination. 

Percy Ranthorpe was a beggar, and about to plunge ! 
* Paracelsus. 



16 EANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER III. 

EARLY STRUGGLES. 

J'ai su, pauvre et content, savourer a longs traits 
Les muses, les plaisirs, et l'etude, et la paix, 
Une pauvrete libre est un tresor si doux ! 
II est si doux, si beau, de s'etre fait soi-meme; 
De devoir tout a soi, aux beaux arts qu'on aime. 

Andre Cheniek. 

The " Poems of the Affections" were completed. Hav- 
ing copied them out, Percy sent them to Mr. Wilson, the 
publisher, with a note requesting him to read them, and 
see if he had any objection to publish them ; Percy an- 
nounced his intention of calling in three days' time. 

He did so. He dressed himself in his best clothes, 
and set off flushed with triumph. It was with peculiar, 
almost awful, sensations that he entered the shop, and 
inquired for Mr. Wilson. The three clerks took no sort 
of notice of him. One was eating his luncheon. A 
second nibbing his pen. The third tying up a parcel of 
books. 

" Is Mr. Wilson within ?" repeated Percy. 

11 Do you want to see him?" asked the clerk with his 
mouth full. 

" Yes." 



EARLY STRUGGLES. 17 

44 He's very much engaged." 

" Perhaps you will take in my name. Mr. Ranthorpe." 

° Jim, take in the gentleman's name, will you?" 

The clerk, nibbing his pen very leisurely, laid it down, 
got off his stool, gave the fire a poke, and sauntered 
into an inner room, from whence he shortly proceeded 
with far greater alacrity, and politely requested Percy to 
step in. 

I quite relinquish the attempt of depicting the poet's 
sensations as he entered the dusky room, where sat the 
awful Mr. Wilson, upon whose decision his fate seemed 
to hang. Mr. Wilson motioned him to a chair and said : 

" I have read your poems, Mr. Ranthorpe ; and very 
pretty they are ; very." 

There was a ringing in Percy's ears ; his face was 
crimson ; he was speechless. 

" They will make an elegant little volume," continued 
the publisher; " I presume you would wish it handsomely 
got up?" 

" Why yes — that is — of course — I leave that to you." 

" Very good. I will get it up for you as moderately 
as I can, and as well." 

Percy did not comprehend this. The publisher thought 
he was simply requested to publish the poems at the 
author's expense. Judge, then, of his surprise when 
asked by Percy timidly: 
" ,: " What do you think you can give for the copyright?" 

" Copy ? My dear sir. There's some mistake. 

Do you not wish me to publish your poems ?" 

" Yes." 

" At your expense " 

" At my expense ! Oh no ! I thought, as you 
admired the poems, you would purchase them." 

c 



18 EANTHORPE. 

" Ah, my dear sir, you are young yet, or you would 
know that we never purchase such things." 

" But if you admire them?" 

" The public won't buy them. Poetry, sir, is a drug ; 
a drug, sir. I couldn't sell i Childe Harold ' if it were 
now first published." 

" Will you publish the poems at your risk ?" asked 
Percy in desperation. 

"It is a thing we never do, I assure you; never — 
never. In fact, we consider it a compliment when we 
consent to publish for an author." 

Some feeble skirmishing was kept up ; but Percy, 
seeing Mr. Wilson was pitiless, took back his manuscript 
and left the shop, gloomy and sick at heart. 

" Some other publisher may be glad of them," he said, 
at last ; and this revived his hopes. 

But another, and another, and another followed, with 
unhesitating unanimity declining the honourable risk. 

The self-love of the poet was exasperated. He felt 
towards the publishers a feeling of bitterness allied to 
hatred. Life was spoiled for him ; and by them. A bar- 
rier, insurmountable, seemed to rise between him and 
success. 

"I shall die unknown, Isola," he said. "I shall die 
unrecorded and unread. Oh! if the poems could but 
appear, they would be sure to succeed; I know it; feel 
it. But these ignorant booksellers, thinking only of 
pounds, shillings, and pence, know nothing of poetry, 
and care nothing about it*' 

"But, darling, you must not blame them: pounds, 
shillings, and pence are their objects: they are trades- 
men, not critics." 

" Yes, tradesmen" retorted Percy, with bitter con- 



EAELY STRUGGLES. 19 

tempt. " And by what privilege do they trade in poetry? 
Oh ! that I were any thing but a clerk !" 

It was then, for the first time, he felt that he was no- 
thing. What thoughts then oppressed him ! What sad 
despondency nourished in a soul hitherto so buoyant and 
so hopeful ! What cries of anguish at his social position! 

" Genius," said Isola to him one day, " has always to 
struggle; but it always vanquishes at last." 

" If it have courage, Isola; perhaps so. 5 ' 

"It is not genius if it have not. Therefore, Percy, let 
us hope on." 

She rested his aching head upon her bosom, and kissed 
his hot brow. He looked into her calm lustrous eyes, and 
in the unutterable love there he read courage to endure. 
He felt he was not alone in the world. If all else were 
denied him, she was with him ; and her love made life a 
paradise. 

With somewhat of the pride of a martyr, Percy con- 
sented to accept his obscurity for the present. Meanwhile, 
his studies went on. He had resolved to fit himself for 
the rude battle with the world. 

At the time I speak of, there used to be in Holborn 
(and there may be still) a coffee-house, at which the young 
poet spent much of his time. It was an uninviting look- 
ing place. Two kidneys placed upon one plate, and one 
solitary fly-blown chop on another plate, flanking a tin 
coffee-pot, and a cup inverted in its saucer: such was the 
symbolical appearance presented by the window-ledge. 
Over these was placed a printed bill of fare ; concluding 
with this announcement: — "Daily and Evening Papers : 
Reviews and Magazines." 

The interior did not belie the exterior. The long room, 
with two rows of " boxes 5 ' looking like pews, was lit up 

C2 



20 EANTHORPE. 

with gas. The refreshments were cooked at one corner, 
behind a screen. The tables were strewed with cups of 
tea and coffee, broken bread, and rashers of bacon. The 
men seated at the tables were mostly mechanics, snatching 
an hour from toil, and in all their dirt revelling in news- 
papers and magazines, of which they were eager devourers; 
and some " penny-a-liners," and a few of the poorer sort of 
clerks were also there, joking with the drab who waited 
on them — a girl all dirt and pertness, well used to the 
easy and familiar wit of the customers who called her 
" Mary, dear/' or " Jemima, love." 

Into this dismal, but not uninteresting place — for there 
also was the growing avidity of the people for instruction 
exemplified — Percy was attracted by the reviews and 
magazines; and made himself acquainted with the ideas 
the age was putting forth. In the perusal of the criticisms 
on contemporary writers, he silently amassed a fund of cri- 
tical ideas, which he endeavoured to apply to his own 
compositions. One day, after reading some poems in 
" Blackwood," it struck him that here was an opening. 

" I will send one of my poems to ' Blackwood,' w he said; 
" the editor is a judge; he won't be so stupid as the book- 
sellers. If he prints it, I will send him others, and thus, 
in time, I may get known." 

He did so. The editor was a judge, and refused it. 
Percy was angry, but sent it to (i Frazer" with the same 
result. His poems went the round of the magazines, but 
appeared nowhere. 

Did he despond? Did he for one instant suspect that he 
was on a wrong path? that nature had not destined him 
for literary success ? — Not in the least. Nothing so pliant 
as the vanity of an author; no rebuff can break it; it will 
bend, and bend, and bend, but will not break. Percy con- 



EARLY STRUGGLES. 21 

soled himself, and Isola, with the idea that all great men 
had suffered neglect. It was notorious that all the best 
books had been refused by booksellers ; all the best poems 
at first condemned by critics. The conclusion was ob- 
viously in favour of the excellence of all refused works : 
they were too good for the age. Percy had often read the 
sad tale of neglected genius. He was neglected; and 
logic abetted vanity in jumping to the conclusion that he 
was "before his age." 

This is a common delusion. When a man fails in lite- 
rature, his inordinate vanity makes him assume that the 
public is not fitted to comprehend his works. He is before 
his age. But when the fact of failure has two explanations, 
why not sometimes suspect the second to be true ? Why 
not assume the works to be behind the age? 

Men treat this wondrous age of ours too cavalierly. De- 
pend upon it, our age is no laggard : it advances with giant 
strides, and is not to be outstripped by one of common 
thews and sinews. To keep up to its level is a task for 
no ordinary powers. To rise above it is the rare privilege 
of few. Various minds are struggling for mastery, and 
seek distinction in various ways. There are some men 
who swim with the stream, and some who swim against it: 
men with their age, "in the foremost files of time ;" and men 
behind it. There is also a third class. There are men beside 
the age. These neither swim with the stream ; they have 
not the courage : nor against it; they have not the strength. 
But they sit moaning at the river's side, calling upon man- 
kind to admire how exquisitely they are made for sioimming. 
The busy world is deaf; the moaner therefore continues un- 
heeded, except by a few idle or sympathetic souls who 
gather round him, and admire his make. These at length 
urge him to take a plunge. He plunges : one splash, and 



22 RANTHORPE. 

lie rises dizzy from trie whirl of waters ; sprawls, and floun- 
ders till lie reaches land, and then meets his admirers by 
observing : 

" Great swimmers are never in their element in river 
water, they want the roaring waves to buffet with." 

Percy was a neglected genius, and regarded his neglect as 
a token of his superiority. He had before him about this 
time an example which went very far towards turning him 
from his career. He had made the acquaintance of a brother 
poet — a Mr. Wynton — another neglected genius, and who 
seemed likely to remain so, for he was old enough to be 
Percy's father. He was a fine creature ; and a community 
of feeling soon established a degree of intimacy between 
them. He invited Percy to " look in upon him" some day. 

It was a bleak chill afternoon, as Percy was returning 
home, that he " looked in upon" Wynton. The room 
into which he was shown made a deep impression on him. 
Its poverty was hideously distinct ; small and low, it had 
no carpet, the coals were contained in a kitchen shovel in 
one corner, and the only fire-iron was a poker worn to a 
mere rod. Cowering over a miserable fire sat Wynton's 
wife, a woman evidently born and bred a lady, and who 
seemed meekly to bear her fate. She was rocking the 
cradle, wherein squalled a red baby, whose frock was dry- 
ing by the fire, the back of a chair officiating as a clothes- 
horse. Wynton was worn in appearance, but his manner 
was light and buoyant. His eye sparkled with pleasure 
as Percy entered, and throwing round him the skirt of an 
ancient dressing-gown, which he did with an air as if it 
had been the most sumptuous of raiments, said : 

" This is a comfortless place to receive you in; but po- 
verty and poets, you know." 

This was said with a touch of pride. But in the sub- 



I 



EARLY STRUGGLES. 23 

sequent conversation which took place, Wynton spoke too 
bitterly of the deceptions which awaited every man who 
trusted to literature, for Percy not to see that however he 
might hug his poverty in certain moments, he deeply re- 
gretted it at others. Percy left the house thoughtful and 
sad. He determined to relinquish literature. 

On reaching home, the bright smile of Isola flashed its 
sunshine across his gloom. 

" Have you seen the paper, darling?" she asked 
eagerly. 

"No." 

" Then come in! good news! look here!" And she 
held out the paper to him, pointing to an advertisement 
of one of the magazines, where, amongst various contri- 
butions, he read this: — " The Poet's Heart. By Percy 
Ranthorpe." 

" The poet's heart" at that moment beat violently. He 
read the advertisement again and again, and throwing 
down the paper, clasped Isola to his arms in transport. 
His father entered. 

" Look here, father, look here I" he exclaimed. 

"What, what tt 

" See. Read that; I am on the way to fame/' 

And with supreme triumph he pointed out the adver- 
tisement. 

"Pooh," said his father, affecting indifference ; but 
really little less proud than his son. There is in ignorant 
minds a curious prestige attached to print; when they see 
a name in a newspaper it always seems written in gold. 
Old Mr. Ranthorpe thought it right not to show his 
pride, but he was proud. 

The wise resolution, so recently formed, was utterly 
forgotten. Such is the poet's nature ! The first glimpse 



24 KANTHORPE. 

of success suffices to arouse all his energies, to excite 
anew all liis old delusions, to restore all his passionate 
aspirings. He may be baffled, he may be discouraged; 
he may blaspheme and despair. But, in the storm of his 
despair, a breath will turn him. 

The magazine came out; and Percy saw himself in 
print. Those who have once experienced this, will re- 
member their delight and pride. Months succeeded, and 
with each succeeding month appeared some new poem by 
the intoxicated Ranthorpe. And yet no enthusiastic 
public had crowned the poet in the capitol; no coterie 
swore by him ; no one wrote for autographs ! But the 
poems appeared: that satisfied our lovers. Hope had 
hung upon a slenderer thread for it not to hang on this. 
He could afford to bide his time, when every month 
brought fresh incense to his vanity. This incense was 
poison. He became so accustomed to regard the publica- 
tion of his verses as success, that his clerkship became 
more and more intolerable to him. He longed to set 
himself fairly afloat upon the wide sea of literature. He 
filled so much space in the world of his imagination, that 
he could not help believing he must be important in the 
world of reality. 

Isola endeavoured to restrain him. She pointed out to 
him the dangers — his youth and inexperience, and ad- 
vised him to be patient. He was silenced but not con- 
vinced. 



LE PREMIER PAS. 25 



CHAPTER IV. 

LE PREMIER PAS. 

He whose profession is the Beautiful, succeeds only through the 
sympathies. Charity and compassion are virtues taught with difficulty 
to ordinary men; to true genius they are but the instincts which direct 
it to the destiny it is born to fulfil — viz., the discoyery and redemption 
of new traits in our common nature. Genius— the sublime missionary 
— goes forth from the serene intellect of the author to live in the wants, 
the griefs, and the infirmities of others in order that it may learn their 
language; and as its highest achievement is Pathos, so its most abso- 
lute requisite is Pity. 

Ernest Maltravers. 

" I have brought forward all the arguments I can think 
of," said Percy, one day to his father; "I am now one- 
and-twenty, and must ask you to consider my feelings in 
the matter.'" 

" Your fiddlesticks V 9 contemptuously retorted Mr. 
Ranthorpe. " What has a boy of your age to do with 
feelings ? Have you not to get your livelihood?" 

" True; but there are other means of gaining a sul> 
sistence than as a lawyer's clerk." 

"What, literature, I suppose?" asked his father, with 
a cold sneer. 

" Yes, literature," proudly replied Percy. 

A loud, contemptuous laugh was all the answer his 
father vouchsafed. Percy was nettled. 



26 EANTHORPE. 

" I know you tliink authors are a despicable race, living 
in garrets — " 

" Starving in them," interrupted His father. " 1 never 
said living. Mere hirelings of booksellers and editors." 

Percy continued, without noticing the interruption, — 

" And however absurd such a notion, I will not attempt 
to argue you out of it. But I have resolved to quit my 
office." 

" Then you quit my house at the same time. What ! 
am I to see you throwing up a certainty — a livelihood !" 

" A livelihood ! you do not imagine that my salary of 
nve-and-twenty pounds a year would support me.'' 

" You may get something better." 

" That I intend; and at once." 

" Very well; only don't give up your situation till you 
have got something else." 

" I must give it up at once." 

" You shan't do any thing of the kind," fiercely ex- 
claimed his father, whose irascible nature was greatly 
excited by this dialogue. 

* Why not?" 

u Because I don't choose it, sir." 

" Suppose I have done it already." 

" Suppose — you're a fool !" 

" Then understand me father, I have done it* 

" You have !" exclaimed his father, bounding from his 
chair, " then go this instant and undo your folly, or you 
shall never set your foot within my doors again." 

"I would rather quit the house than stay in it a clerk." 

A heavy blow on the face was his father's answer I 

Stung with rage at the indignity, Percy sprang from 
the chair, hurried to his own room, packed up his few 
clothes, and left the house in silence. When out in the 



LE PREMIER PAS. 27 

open street he wandered for some time unconscious of 
every thing around him. Bitter feelings assailed him ; 
but his haughty and imperious nature found a sort of 
delight in the frank struggle with fate and circumstance 
which now awaited him. Resolved to owe no more to 
his father ; resolved to carve his own path, he trusted in 
the strength of his own right arm. The world was before 
him, vast as his desires, and he was free ! 

Free ! what a thrilling sensation is that when the 
young adventurer first quits the paternal mansion to carve 
for himself a pathway in the world ! How strong the 
sense of existence, when he first feels independence! 
Boyhood retreats into the past ; manhood begins. The 
world's burden rests upon the adventurer's shoulders, and 
rests lightly, supported as it is by Hope. 

Inexperienced as Percy was, and anxious to play some 
part in the world, he looked upon his deliverance from the 
paternal authority as a blessing. A load was rolled from 
his heart. He began to scrutinise his position as a gene- 
ral examines the plans of a campaign. He had twelve 
pounds, ten shillings — a half year's salary — for the 
whole of his fortune, and this he had to husband till he 
should get employment. He took a bed-room near the 
street where Wynton lived. For this he paid five 
shillings a week. His breakfast would cost him twopence- 
halfpenny, viz., a penny loaf and a cup of coffee; his dinner, 
two penny loaves and a bit of cheese or bacon, would 
cost threepence or threepence-halfpenny ; his tea the same 
as breakfast. Thus for eightpence or ninepence a day 
he could exist. 

Having made these calculations and set apart the 
money in small parcels for each week, he wrote a long 
letter to Isola full of regret at being separated from her, 



28 RANTHORPE. 

but instilling into her his own confident hopes that all 
was for the best, and that they would soon be united. 
He asked her to send him his books, and appointed a 
place where she could meet him. 

" My dearest Percy," she said, when they met, " there 
is no chance of your father's relenting unless you apolo- 
gise to him." 

Ci Apologise for what ? For his having struck me ?" 

" Had you given the blow he could not be more indig- 
nant/' she replied. And this was true. Mr. Ranthorpe 
quite hated his son at that moment ; hated him as we 
sometimes hate those we have wronged. 

ie Never will I move one step," replied Percy ; " never 
will I again live under his roof. My anger is gone, 
perhaps, but all filial respect is gone with it. Home has 
long been irksome to me, now it would be intolerable." 

"What will you do?" 

" Work. I have talents. Hundreds of men whom I 
believe to have less than I are earning independence ; 
why should not I ? Literature I was destined to. I 
always wished to try my venture on its seas ; now I am 
forced upon them." 

Thus lightly and confidently did this sanguine boy 
cast himself upon the perilous bosom of that sea wherein 
so many brave hearts have been shipwrecked. It was a 
fearful step. Hundreds of young men take it with the 
thoughtless recklessness of youth. They confound their 
desire for distinction with the power of distinguishing 
themselves. Doubtless the temptation is great. "Oh! 
what a luxury is there in that first love of the Muse ! that 
process by which we give a palpable form to the long 
intangible visions which have flitted across us."* The 

* Ernest Maltravers. 



LE PREMIER PAS. 29 

delight of appearing in print, of being to thousands of 
readers that near and cherished friend which a favourite 
author is to us ! Is not that temptation enough to seduce 
the young and aspiring into any peril ? Unhappily none 
know the danger save those who have escaped it. 

An author ! 'tis a venerable name ! 
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim ! 
Unblest with sense, above their peers refined 
Who shall stand up, dictators of mankind ?* 

The combat commenced. His pinching poverty was 
endured with firmness, if not indifference ; but his re- 
peated ill-success in the efforts he made to get employ- 
ment was more hard to bear. He wrote tales and 
sketches, hoping to get them inserted in the magazines. 
All were refused. He then suspected that he should be 
forced to write down to the magazine readers. Fatal 
delusion, which has misled so many ! He tried what he 
called the "popular style;" but as writing badly with 
malice prepense never yet succeeded with any one, so did 
it in nowise profit him. His popular style was as merci- 
lessly rejected as his ambitious style. 

Many a long night did he sit in his small room reflect- 
ing on his position. As his burning head rested upon 
his hand, and his eyes mechanically wandered over the 
various plans and manuscripts strewed before him, he 
sometimes felt a sick despair growing over him. He 
counted his finances, and was shocked to find them so 
nearly exhausted. A few more weeks, and beggary 
stared him in the face. Want had been his familiar 
playfellow ; but Hope had been always at his side point- 
ing to the sunny future. Now hope seemed to vanish. 
If his small fund were to be exhausted before he got em- 

* Young. 



30 



KANTHORPE. 



ployment, lie would have no other resource than to enlist 
as a common soldier. What a prospect for an ambitious 
youth ! 

His prospects shortly brightened a little. Wynton had 
got an engagement on a weekly newspaper of good 
repute, and hoped to be able to introduce Percy to the 
editor, and so manage to find a place for him also. 

The sight of Wynton installed in new and well-furnished 
lodgings, with all the necessaries of life about him, was 
peculiarly gratifying to Percy, not only because he re- 
joiced in his friend's fortune, but also because the change 
in that friend's fortune looked like a harbinger of hope to 
him. 

There remained only money enough for three weeks' 
penurious existence, when a note came inviting him 
to dinner at Mr. Rixelton's, the editor of the paper 
on which Wynton was engaged. He wrote a hurried 
hopeful note to Isola announcing the event, and set forth 
with a lighter heart than had beat in his breast for many 
months. 



RANTHORPE BECOMES A JOURNALIST. 31 



CHAPTER V. 

RANTHORPE BECOMES A JOURNALIST. 

If by the liberty of the press we understand merely the liberty of 
discussing public measures and public opinions, let us have as much of 
it as you please; but if it means the liberty of affronting, calum- 
niating, and defaming another, I, for my part, own myself willing to 
part with my share of it; and shall cheerfully exchange my liberty of 
abusing others for the privilege of not being abused myself. 

Franklin. 

Je critiquai sans esprit, et sans choix 

Impunement le theatre, la chaire. 

Voltaire. 

The dinner was copious; the conversation noisy. If 
authors, as a race, do not talk well, they certainly talk a 
great deal, especially when together. 

Ranthorpe at first was silent : awed by finding himself 
amongst acknowledged writers : men who treated articles 
and books as matters of course ! But his natural vanity 
soon loosened his tongue. He wished to shine, and he 
shone. With the guests he was in ecstacies. 

In the life of an author, there are few events more 
highly prized than making the acquaintance of literary 
men who have attained some success. People talk of the 
envy and jealousy of authors; but it is a vulgar error. 
I firmly believe that no author, unless a man of the 



32 RANTHORPE. 

meanest and most envious disposition, ever envied the 
success of another. Authors are an imaginative and 
sympathetic race. They gladly associate with each other. 
They take keen interest in each other's projects. And to 
an obscure author, the acquaintance of one acknowledged 
by the world is always peculiarly fascinating ; Ranthorpe 
was fascinated. 

Of the assembled guests I may introduce the reader to 
Mr. Joyce, a middle-aged Scotchman, whom every body 
declared to be " a regular trump." Of Scotchmen this 
much may be said : let the national character be what it 
may, whenever the individuals free themselves from its 
prejudices they are glorious fellows. When a Scotchman 
Is a " trump," he is always an Ace of trumps. Joyce was 
an Ace. His large, round, good-humoured face beaming 
with intelligence, was the index of a large, wise soul. His 
presence was sunshine in a room. He was friendly with 
all men, whatever their tempers or opinions. No one 
ever quarrelled with him; everybody asked his advice, 
and what is more, took it. He knew a little of every thing, 
and a great deal of a great many things. He had learn- 
ing, taste, and supreme good sense. He had written one 
of the most popular books of our day, and had never put 
his name to it, although the world attributed it to 
another. He could argue with men, and gossip agreeably 
with women. He was considerably pestered by country 
cousins, who absorbed a great deal of his time, but he 
bore with them with amazing equanimity. Ranthorpe 
instinctively took to him; and they afterwards became 
intimate friends. 

Opposite Joyce sat Wynton, and by his side sat Pun- 
gent, the editor of the " Exterminator." Pungent was a 
small, thin, sleek-looking man of about forty. He was 



RANTHORPE BECOMES A JOURNALIST. 33 

always dressed like a clergyman ; having the two-fold 
ambition of being taken for a wit, and mistaken for a 
clergyman. The Rev. Sydney Smith was his ideal. 
Though overflowing with kindness, he unfortunately 
mistook asperity for wit ; so that in all London you could 
not find a kinder man, nor a crueller critic. The early 
pranks of the " Edinburgh Review' 5 had turned his head. 
In their lively ridicule he saw the perfection of criticism ; 
and he imitated it, unconsciously omitting the liveli- 
ness. This sleek, kind, cruel man uttered sarcasms with 
a breath of tenderness; he wounded your self-love with 
unspeakable suavity. Ask any thing of him but his good 
word, and you were certain to obtain it. 

Opposite Pungent sat Bourne, a pale, melancholy look- 
ing man, doing his best to appear romantic, who 
having failed to make any figure in Parliament, had 
thrown himself upon literature for distinction. He was 
a man of independent property, and could afford the ex- 
pensive luxury of literature : printing his own works 5 and 
being his own purchaser. His great ambition was that of 
a dramatic poet; he had printed several tragedies and 
one " ideal comedy." He had been enthusiastically 
praised by his friends; yet in spite of the eulogies 
showered on the second Shakspeare, neither managers nor 
public could be induced to look at his plays. 

" Does any one know how the new play went off on 
Thursday?" asked Joyce. 

" What ! haven't you seen the ' Exterminator?"' asked 
Pungent. 

" No." 

" No ; then do so ; you know I am devoted to the 
drama, pen and pencil-case." Then, in his blandest tone, 
Pungent added; " I think I have settled the author." 

D 



34 RANTHORPE. 

" Quite right !" said Bourne, vehemently; tf such trash ! 
but it's just like the managers to bring out this stuff. 
What annoyed me was to see a parcel of stupid fellows- 
friends of the author — who went purposely to applaud. 
For my part I went to hiss ; and hiss I did." 

" That was kind," quietly suggested Rixelton. 

' * It was conscientious. I foresaw what it would be; 
else how could a manager have been induced to produce 
it ? Managers have an abstract horror of good plays ; 
their ignoble souls delight only in trash." 

" How can that be?" asked Joyce. 

" How it can be I don't know; but it is. However, 
there is always consolation in a play d — d. Every failure 
is a lesson. Managers, on the verge of ruin, will be forced 
to produce good pieces ; forced to bend an unwilling knee 
to genius, i" bide my time. The Ideal must be recog- 
nised at last." 

" My good fellow/' said Joyce, smiling, " do you really 
think the public cares about the Ideal? It is not the want 
of our age. The Ideal is only fitted for ages of faith, and 
ours is an age of scepticism." 

" Oh, surely not," interposed Ranthorpe. 

" Well, then, of prosaism. People now care for Use, 
not Beauty. It was once otherwise. The Greeks, 
with all their splendid architecture, never had a bridge. 
The Italians, who worshipped the delicate genius of 
Benvenuto Cellini, could not boast of a lock. We have 
superb bridges and locks, but we have lost the sense of 
beauty. Out of Leda's egg our age would make — a custard." 

" Joyce is quite right," said Pungent. " Poetry, as we 
are repeatedly told, is a drug.'* 

" Yes, drug-ipoetry,''' retorted Ranthorpe. " But in 
spite of what we are perpetually told, our daily experience 



BANTHOEPE BECOMES A JOUENALIST. 35 

contradicts it. Poetry can never die; never become a 
drug. It is the incarnation of our dearest hopes, the ut- 
terance of our most passionate aspirings. When we have 
ceased to hope and ceased to feel, poetry will die, and not 
till then." 

" I attribute the present neglect of poetry, 5 ' said Pun- 
gent, "to the indifference of critics, who, allowing trash 
to pass without reprehension, have corrupted the art. In 
your paper, Rixelton, I am sorry to see a want of stern- 
ness. You have no epigram — no Attic salt — believe me 
you want light and shade — a due blending of blame and 
praise/ 5 

" That's capital," rejoined Rixelton, " when you never 
praise." 

u It gives breadth to criticism/ 3 

" Shall I tell you the real truth?" said Rixelton. "I 
began my career tolerably reckless of the self-love of 
others. I scattered, with an unthinking hand, no small 
quantity of the Attic salt, you mention, into the open 
wounds of authors' self-love. I wrote a book. Gentle- 
men, I then felt that criticism was not a joke! I was 
1 cut up.' I had the measure meted out to me that I had 
meted out to others. I was humiliated — maddened — I, 
who had humiliated and maddened others for so long. 
From that moment I was a changed man." 

" But/' objected Pungent, " it is just as bad praising a 
book which does not deserve it. You mislead the public 
if you speak of a work as if its few merits were samples 
of the whole." 

" And," rejoined Rixelton, " does it not still more 
grossly mislead the public when a few faults are dwelt on 
as if they were samples of the whole ?" 

d2 



36 RANTHOKPE. 

" Might one not accomplish the real object of criti- 
cism," asked Ranthorpe, "by n^ver blaming without as- 
signing reasons, and never praising without sincerity ?" 

"An ideal standard," said Joyce, " and not easily 
reached." 

"But to which we should constantly aspire," replied 
Ranthorpe. 

" You will never convince me/' said Bourne, " that 
blame, however just and temperate, will not exasperate 
an author. 55 

" The surgeon and the assassin both use the knife/ 5 said 
Ranthorpe; "the one with kindness and science, the 
other with wantonness and malice. The one cuts that he 
may cure, the other that he may kill." 

" Mr. Ranthorpe is right, 55 said Rixelton, approvingly, 
" and although perhaps the patient might wince under 
the operation, he would nevertheless regard the operator 
with respect and gratitude. 55 

A few days after this dinner Rixelton, who was greatly 
pleased with Ranthorpe, offered him an engagement, 
which I need not say was accepted with intense delight. 
He had to write the theatrical critiques, and occa- 
sionally review poems. For this he received a guinea a 
week — to him a fortune ! 

The world again was bright to him. The cherished 
ambition of his life was once more possible. Isola smiled 
at his enthusiasm, and half shared it. But life was ex- 
tremely sad now that Percy no longer lived under the 
same roof with her, and she was condemned to hear con- 
stant reproaches uttered by his father respecting his un- 
feeling conduct, mixed with sombre prophecies of his 
coming to some dreadful end. 



RANTHORPE BECOMES A JOURNALIST. 37 

The old man continued obstinate. He would not listen 
to Isola's pleadings in his son's favour. He called him 
an ungrateful wretch, who repaid kindness with insolence. 
And as about this time he had entered upon a specu- 
lation which promised to be highly lucrative, he felt a 
savage pleasure in contemplating his success, and think- 
ing that Percy had shut himself from all participation in 
it. I verily believe that, much as he loved money, he 
cared more for the success of this new speculation from 
the triumph it would give him over his son than for 
the money it would bring. And it was with real pain 
that he heard of Percy's new situation. This escape from 
want vexed him. He had gloated over the idea of his 
son reduced to absolute want, and forced to come to him 
a suppliant. He knew that nothing short of that could 
bend him. But he also knew how scanty the sum of 
money he had in his possession, and greatly marvelled at 
its not having long been exhausted. This situation on a 
newspaper, therefore, which Isola told him of with pride, 
thinking that this first glimpse of success might soften 
him, was doubly hateful. Hateful, because it was a refuge 
for Percy, and prevented the necessity of his yielding; 
and hateful, because that refuge was literature. 

Meanwhile, Percy was supremely happy. Passionately 
fond of the drama, he undertook the task of criticism as 
a luxury. He scarcely ever missed an evening's per- 
formance. Beyond this, conceive the pride of " being 
on the press !" His pen was a power ; at least he thought 
so. The printing-office, dirty, murky, and ill- ventilated, 
was a sacred spot to him. He rejoiced in its gaseous- 
heated atmosphere ; he loved the smell of the ink and 
damp paper. In a word, all the disagreeable things con- 



38 EANTHORPE. 

nected with his office were converted into pleasures, by 
the fact of their relation to the great profession of litera- 
ture : they were les coulisses of the great theatre on which 
he hoped to play so illustrious a part. 

Every Sunday morning the paper lay upon his break- 
fast-table, and made him feel that he was " somebody, " 
as he cut the leaves and eagerly read over his own con- 
tributions. 



THE ORPHANS. 39 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE ORPHANS. 

Ah! I remember well (how can I 

But evermore remember well) when first 

Our flame began, when scarce we knew not 'twas 

The flame we felt; when as we sat and sigh'd 

And look'd upon each other and conceived 

Not what we ail'd, — yet something we did ail; 

And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 

And what was our disease we could not tell. 

Samuel Daniel : Hymeris Triumph. 

Speed was in my footsteps ; 

Hope was in mine eye; 
And the soul of poesy 

Was my dear ally. 
Earth was then as beautiful, — 

As, as is the sky, 
When I look'd beside me 

And saw — that you were nigh. 

Barry Cornwall. 

Percy at length got so accustomed to all the work of 
the press, that it became a l{ matter of course " to him, 
and ceased to be a pleasure. But as he was writing 
another volume of poems, he was glad to be earning a 
subsistence until they should give him celebrity. 

In the course of a few months he had made several 



40 RANTHORPE. 

literary acquaintances, and had gradually been initiated 
into many of the secrets of the profession. His lust for 
fame continued unabated. He had before him many sad 
warnings ; but he pursued the course of his ambitious 
dreams undaunted. 

His father fell dangerously ill; but refused to see him. 
In vain Isola begged that she might send for him. The 
old man sternly declared he should not enter the house, 
until he could enter it having renounced literature for 
ever. Percy was grieved at his father's obstinacy, and at 
times was nearly yielding. But he cherished his ambition 
too much; he could not renounce it. 

Twice or thrice a day he called to ascertain the state of 
his father's health, which was gradually becoming worse. 
One day Isola said to him : 

" Percy, you know how your father has resisted all my 
entreaties. Nevertheless, in spite of his obstinacy, he loves 
you, and would gladly see you. Come with me." 

" He will refuse to see me." 

" Come with me into the room. Venture it. He will 
not have the heart to bid you quit it." 

" It is worth risking," said Percy. 

They agreed that he should enter the room quite as a 
matter of course, and take no notice whatever of what had 
occurred. 

" How are you now, my dear father?" said Percy, ten- 
derly, as he marched resolutely up to the bed-side, and 
took the old man's hand. 

" Better — better — my dear boy," said the old man, with 
tears in his eyes. 

Isola was right. The sight of his boy was too much for 
his anger; it vanished at once. There is a chord in a 
parent's heart which is never touched in vain. However 



THE ORPHANS. 41 

angry we may justly be with a child — he is still our 
child, and our hearts yearn irresistibly towards him. 

The old man pressed his boy's hand in silence; gazed 
on his exquisitely beautiful face with all a father's fond- 
ness and admiration; reading in its lines such grace, 
beauty, tenderness, and promise, that he wondered at him- 
self how he could ever have felt otherwise than he did 
then. Percy, touched at his manner, was about to ask 
forgiveness. The haughty boy, whom no harshness could 
have moved, was melted by these signs of affection. 

" Silence on that," replied his father, mournfully, shaking 
his head as he interrupted him, "let bygones be bygones. 
I am not long for this world." 

"Oh! do not say that." 

" I would not say it, did I not feel it. But it is too 
true. I have not long to live. The little time I have 
yet must be devoted to the future, not the past." 

They prayed together fervently. By his bed-side sat 
Percy three days and three nights, without stirring. He 
could not be persuaded to leave his father, whom he felt 
he had not treated with the consideration which was his due. 
He slept in a chair; or, while he watched the troubled 
slumbers of the dying man, prayed in silence for his 
recovery. 

As he watched thus one night, he was startled by the 
expression of agony and the heavy breathing of the dying 
man, who awoke in terror. 

The old man sat up in his bed, looked wildly at his son, 
then gazing abstractedly at the shadows moving on the 
wall, as the night lamp nickered, muttered — 

" Thank God ! — only a dream — only a dream. 1 ' 

He then sank back upon his pillow, and complained of 



42 EANTHOEPE. 

thirst. Percy brought him some barley-water; which, 
having drunk, the old man said slowly — 

" My dear boy, dreams are sometimes warnings from 
above." 

Percy would not contradict him. 

" I have had a warning about you. It seemed to me 
that — as if — I dreamed — " His voice became inaudible ; 
a sharp pang shot through him; he closed his eyes and 
was silent. 

The stillness of the room — the flickering lamp — the 
heavy breathing, occasionally swelling into moaning — the 
distortion of the features — fearfully impressed Percy's 
imagination, weakened as he was by continual watching. 
He longed to hear his father's dream. Free from all 
superstition as he was, he could not shake off an indefinite 
fear and anxiety respecting this dream. 

At length the old man's features became composed — he 
sank again to sleep. From this sleep he never woke but 
once, and that was only two hours afterwards. 

"Percy — I'm dying — promise me — that — you will — 
give up literature — my dream — promise me — literature — 
destruction — scaffold !" 

This last word was a hissing whisper; and with it he 
expired. 

Had the old man lived one minute longer, he would 
have extorted the promise from his son; which would 
have been religiously kept. Indeed, so impressed was 
Percy by the scene, that he inwardly resolved to obey his 
father's last wish, whatever it might cost him. 

But resolutions made in such moments are seldom kept. 
On cooler reflection, he began to see that it was impos- 
sible for him to give up his career ; and that his father 



THE ORPHANS. 43 

only desired it from a prejudiced and unenlightened view 
of literature. Yet the hissing of the word " scaffold " 
ever and anon rung ominously in his ears ! 

Isola and Percy both grieved deeply. They were now 
orphans in the world. As the funeral ceremony concluded 
they clung to each other in a wild embrace, as if each 
were now the world to each. 

When the first flow of grief was passed, and they began 
to look around them, it was found that, when all debts 
were paid, Percy's father had left nearly two hundred 
pounds. This seemed to them a fortune; and when Isola 
communicated her intentions of earning her own live- 
lihood, as companion to Lady Theresa Wilmington, he 
said — 

" Dearest, you never can think of it. You, too, at the 
beck and call of any one. No ! Let us marry at once. 
We have money to furnish a house, and begin the world 
with; and, for the future, I am easy on that score." 

" No, no, no," replied she, "I must work as well as you." 

"But why?" 

" Because we are not rich enough to marry." 

" Nonsense ! We have enough to start with." 

"Yes; but we cannot live upon that. Darling Percy, 
you have your name yet to make in the world. You will 
have to publish ' The Dreams of Youth ' at your own 
expense. When once that work is fairly known, I'm sure 
you will never want employment; but till then it would 
be madness in us to marry." 

"Do you, then, fear poverty?" 

"That is unkind in you, Percy. You know I should 
not feel poverty with you. But I prefer feeling the 
humiliations which I may meet with as a companion, to 
that far deeper and irremediable humiliation of being a 



44 EANTHOEPE. 

burden upon you. Besides, surely we are young enough 
to wait." 

Poor girl ! how little she suspected that one day her 
arguments would be turned against her ! 

Percy was annoyed at first; but he soon saw that her 
reasoning was just, and he knew her heart too well to 
suppose that her fears were selfish. He himself, though 
violent, and apt to be roused whenever his wishes, how- 
ever unreasonable, were in the least opposed, was generous 
enough to comprehend her generosity. 

" I have been thinking," said he, the next day, " of 
your going to Lady Theresa's, and cannot reconcile myself 
to it. So I have a proposition to make. You are some 
day to be my wife, are you not?" 

She pressed his hand as her only answer. 

" Very well; then of course you consider what is mine 
is yours. Now, you shall not go to Lady Theresa; but 
the money left me by my poor father I hand over to you. 
It shall be your support until I can get regular employ- 
ment to justify our marriage." 

" Generous creature," she exclaimed, kissing him. 

" You accept then?" 

"Do I accept? No, Percy; but it is not pride which 
makes me decline. The money is necessary for your 
advancement; I will not touch a shilling of it." 

" How, necessary? foolish girl." 

" First, to publish your poems." 

" Well, then, I will deduct the sum necessary for that; 
the rest shall be yours." 

" It will not prevent my going to Lady Theresa's. 
Percy, Percy, what extravagant ideas have you got re- 
specting my situation ? It may be irksome, but it has 
surely nothing degrading. Besides, I repeat, the money 






THE ORPHANS. 45 

is necessary for your pursuit. You must leave the 
paper, and devote yourself to some work — your tragedy, 
for instance. This you cannot do, unless you have money 
to live on. In two or three years you will be famous and 
rich." 

This struggle of generosity was often renewed; but Isola 
was always invincible. She shared his hopes and aspira- 
tions, and, therefore, could not think of, in any manner, 
standing in the way of his advancement. She said that 
he was wasted on a newspaper, and ought to accomplish 
higher things. 

She accepted the situation. She had to submit to the 
too common lot of orphan girls ; but she was upheld by 
the proud consciousness of being no obstacle to her lover's 
success. 

He gave up his situation on the newspaper. He had 
attained the Archimedean standing point — the irov arc* of 
his career; and to move the world was now his object. 
And as he saw his poems through the press, and dwelt with 
all an author's fondness on their beauties, he smiled down 
the vague fears, which the recurring sound of his father's 
sombre warning ever and anon called up. A scaffold? 
What connexion had literature with that ? 



BOOK II. 



THE L I O 3ST. 



To what base ends, and by what abject ways, 
Are mortals urged through sacred lust of praise! 

Pope. 

Er erinnerte sich der Zeit, in der sein Geist durch ein unbedingtes 
hoffnungsreiches Streben empor gehoben wurde, wo er in dem leb- 
haftesten Genusse aller Art, wie in einem Elemente schwamm. Es 
ward ihm deutlich, wie er jetzt in ein unbestimmtes Schlendern ge- 
rathen war! 

Gothe. 



THE LITERARY LION. 49 



CHAPTER I. 

THE LITERARY LION. 

Les devoirs de la societe lui devorent son temps ; et le temps est le 
seul capital des gens qui n'ont que leur intelligence pour fortune. II 
aime a, briller; le monde irritera ses desirs qu'aucune somme ne pourra 
satisfaire; il depensera de l'argent et n'en gagnera pas. Les succes 
litteraires ne se conquerent que dans la solitude et par d'obstin6s 
travaux. 

De Balzac. 

The ball was splendid. The rooms were crowded with 
lovely women, and distinguished men. Grisi was pouring 
forth a torrent of song from her exquisite throat; and the 
guests were absolutely listening ! 

" Sir Charles," said Florence Wilmington (niece of the 
Lady Theresa, with whom Isola had been for some 
months as a companion); " Sir Charles^ you know every 
body, do tell me who that is leaning against the piano 
talking to Grisi?" 

Sir Charles, thus interrogated, put up his glass, and let 
it fall carelessly, saying, — 

" Don't know, positively." 

" Emily, my dear," said Florence, to the daughter of 
the hostess, who was then passing, " do tell me who that 
young man is, talking to Grisi." 

" Don't you know Percy Ranthorpe?" 
e 



50 RANTHORPE. 

"What, the author of 'The Dreams of Youth?' I 
thought he was a poet by his beauty. How divinely 
handsome !" 

" Shall I introduce him, Florence?" 

" Do, Emily dear, above all things!" 

" Take care of your heart, then," said Emily, laughing; 
" for Apollo himself was not more fascinating." 

" Certainly not handsomer!" 

" Will you risk your heart, then?" 

" Bah! let him beware of his!" said the beauty, with 
a charming toss of the head. 

And yet any girl might have well been warned against 
so handsome a man as Percy Ranthorpe. He was quite a 
picture, as he stood there in an impassioned conversation 
upon music with the lovely young Grisi. Giulia Grisi 
was superbly handsome at that period, like a Greek 
statue, in the mould of her head and bust ; and was pecu- 
liarly attractive to Ranthorpe, from having somewhat of 
the same kind of beauty as Isola. 

Nothing could be greater than the contrast of Ran- 
thorpe's appearance at that moment, with that at the 
period of his first introduction on the scene of this novel. 
Instead of the poor, ill-dressed, attorney's clerk, he was 
now dressed in the newest fashion, — he had become a 
" Lion." 

In a few minutes he was standing up with Florence 
Wilmington to a quadrille. 

" I dare say, Mr. Ranthorpe," said she, with a most 
winning air, " you will think me very missish ; but I 
must tell you, not only how often I have wished for the 
pleasure of your acquaintance, but also that I at once 
guessed who you were directly I saw you." A little fib, 
which belongs to the white lies of society. 



THE LITERARY LION. 51 

Kanthorpe bowed. 

" But don't be vain," she said, archly; "for after all 
you disappointed me. I expected something more tra- 
gical and gloomy; something, in short, which should tell 
of the sadness uttered in your poems." 

" Are we unfortunate scribblers then bound to be always 
in a state of melancholy?" asked Percy. 

" Why, you would be more interesting." 

" I doubt it. A melancholy moment or so may serve 
as a condiment ; but one cannot dine off spices." 

" But I don't see any trace of sadness about you." 

" How could I be such a brute as to be sad when bask- 
ing in the sunshine of your smile?" 

" Prettily turned off. But you have desillusione me. I 
shall no longer believe in le morne desespoir of your poems." 
Florence was fond of studding her conversation with phrases 
borrowed from French novels. 

" If life were a quadrille, and I had you for my partner, be- 
lieve me there would be no longer any sadness in my muse." 

" Oh ! don't suppose that I am always gay," said she, 
bending her long voluptuous eyes upon him. 

" Are you ever sad?" 

" Yes; and if I had no cause, I would make one. Tou- 
jours perdrix is unwholesome. Perpetual gaiety is a curry 
without rice. I see another volume of poems advertised 
by you. Are we soon to have it?" 

u Very shortly, I hope." 

"Don't you admire Grisi? is she not delicieusement 
belle r 

" Like a bit of Greek sculpture." 

" Ah ! that's so like you authors ! As you believe books 
superior to realities, so you always prefer a statue to a 



e2 



52 RANTHORPE. 

In this style they rattled on. Florence had made up 
her mind to a conquest; and Ranthorpe had shown no 
backwardness in replying to her advances. Accustomed 
as he had been for some months to the flatteries of drawing- 
rooms, he had learned to play the dangerous game of 
badinage as a necessary consequence of his position. 

He was neither surprised nor intoxicated by Florence's 
evident admiration. The success of the " Dreams of Youth" 
had been considerable. Indeed the small critics had not 
only " hailed the volume with delight/' but declared it 
" decidedly superior to any of the season;" some going so 
far as to pronounce the author a second Byron. Pungent 
alone remained true to his character, and was voluble with 
ponderous levities respecting the errors and crudities of the 
poems. He told Ranthorpe that it grieved him to speak 
so of his friend's work; but that he owed it to posterity 
to be uncompromising. His friend forgave him. 

The sounder critics, though scorning the stereotyped 
drivel of the press, and seeing in the " Dreams of 
Youth" rather a skilful echo of other men's thoughts, than 
original works, yet detected touches of real feeling, lines 
of exquisite melody, and images of daring felicity. The 
beauties they quoted; the errors were treated leniently. 
This is dangerous kindness, and has ruined many. A poet 
is naturally vain; and if vain when unapplauded, unap- 
preciated, what wonder if he grow arrogant on applause? 
He rushes into the world full of ardour and dreams of glory. 
His eyes are so intently fixed upon the star that shines 
upon the double- crested mount, Parnassus, that he over- 
looks the steep and perilous ascent — an ascent which must 
be climbed with toil, and cannot be cleared at a bound. 
He attempts to clear it at a bound : and is applauded for 



THE LITEEARY LION. 53 

his rashness. Confirmed in his error by applause, and 
believing success easy, he takes no pains to achieve it. 

'Tis the old story of the hare and the tortoise ! 

Ranthorpe was not only the supreme poet of albums, but 
the first waltzer in London. His aristocratic air, his haughty 
bearing, his beauty and success, soon made him a " Lion." 

This was his ruin. The poison was offered to him in a 
golden cup, and he greedily swallowed it. Without posi- 
tively regarding " moving in the first circles," as the ob- 
ject of his existence, he certainly regarded it as the best 
means to attain his object. He looked to patronage for 
success, and forgot the public for a coterie ! 

Wretched youth ! He had lost an author's courage to 
endure poverty and neglect, to live unnoticed, unflattered, 
unappreciated ; because he had lost that conception of his 
mission which makes martyrdom a glory. Poverty, then, 
for the first time appeared in all its terrors. It was not only 
poverty to him — it was failure. He had lived upon eight- 
pence a day, and had been rich upon it. He now lived as a 
prodigal, and dreaded the inevitable termination of his career. 
In the society he now frequented, he believed personal influ- 
ence the great requisite for success; and that his "powerful 
friends" would remove all the barriers which kept him from 
fortune and renown. He was daily getting more of these 
friends ; fresh houses were constantly being opened to him ; 
his position in society was daily becoming more prominent. 
But all his little fortune was squandered, and debts were fast 
increasing. At first the expenses inevitable upon hisposition 
wrung from him secret cries of anguish; and his delight 
at being invited to some country seat was considerably 
alloyed by the idea of what it would cost him. He soon 
got over this ; and the life of a man about town suited his 



54 RANTHORPE. 

disposition so well that lie insensibly fell into it, and squan- 
dered his money with a poet's recklessness. 

" Ranthorpe, can I set you down ?" asked Sir Henry 
Varden, as he saw Percy about to withdraw. 

" Thank you," replied Percy, " if you are going now." 
And twining his arm within that of his " powerful friend," 
he descended the stately staircase with a proud feeling. 

" Sir Henry Varden's carriage stops the way," roared 
one of the servants. 

" Sir Henry is coming down," answered another. 

The next minute Ranthorpe was reclining against the 
easy-cushioned back of his friend's carriage, listening to 
his remarks with tolerable indifference, till Sir Henry said, 

" By the way, you made a fresh conquest to-night — 
Florence Wilmington. Take care ; she's a terrible flirt." 

" I am in no danger, I assure you." 

" Don't you admire her?" 

" Immensely. But my heart is elsewhere." 

" So much the better ; you may defy her, for she in- 
tends to lay siege to your heart, I'll swear, by the trium- 
phant smile with which she learned that you were to be 
at Rushfield Park during her stay there. By the way, I 
shall be going down the day after to-morrow, why can't 
you accompany me ?" 

" Let me see. The day after to-morrow — well, I see 
no obstacle — I certainly will avail myself of your offer." 

" That's settled then. But here we are at your door." 

The carriage stopped at a house in Dover-street, where 
Ranthorpe had apartments. Bidding Sir Henry adieu, 
and again engaging to accompany him to Rushfield Park, 
he opened the door with his latch key, and proceeded to 
his room. 



THE LITERARY LION. 55 

" Only twelve," said he, looking at his watch. " I must 
do a little work, for to-morrow I breakfast out, and that 
will be another day lost." 

Another day lost ! He actually regretted it, and did 
not see that his whole life was a series of such losses. 

He opened his portfolio, and endeavoured to work at 
his tragedy. In vain. His brain was sluggish, or wasted 
itself on chimseras and air castles. When he attempted to 
write, the sound of music was in his ears, and the forms of 
fair women amidst brilliantly-lighted saloons were before 
his eyes distracting his attention. The real poetic fire 
that once ran through his veins, no longer gave vitality to 
his literary projects. He was consumed by a factitious 
excitement ; a hectic and unnatural heat burnt out his 
energies. 

Upwards of an hour he sat there 5 his head resting on 
his hand, and his pen vacantly drawing figures on his 
blotting paper. He vainly endeavoured to arouse the 
tragic inspiration by thinking of the necessity of soon 
finishing his play. But the very current of his thoughts 
was sufficient to destroy all genuine enthusiasm. 

I cannot better paint the situation of his mind than by 
indicating the current of his thoughts on this as on all 
other occasions when his play was the subject. He thought 
not of the passions and motives of his characters ; but of 
the worldly success of the piece. He saw, in his mind's eye, 
gigantic placards announcing that success. The words 
EVERY NIGHT and OVERFLOWING AUDIENCES for ever 

floated before him. He read imaginary reviews, wherein 
the critics welcomed his piece as a revival of the intellec- 
tual drama, and were sensitively alive to all its subtler 
beauties, as to all the splendour of its poetry. He held 
imaginary interviews with rival managers hungering after 



56 



RANTHOEPE. 



his next play. He imposed on them exorbitant terms. 
The money was already laid out : he would start a cab, and 
remove to the Albany. He should be able to continue the 
career of a man about town ; and be on a footing of equality 
with his acquaintances. 

Last and fatal symptom ! — he never thought of Isola as 
the sharer of this splendour ! 



THE POET OUT IN THE WORLD. 57 



CHAPTER II. 

THE POET OUT IN THE WORLD. 

Se oggidi vivesse in terra 
Democrito, (perche di lagrimare 
Io non son vago, e pero taccio il nome 
D' Eraclito dolente,) or, se vivesse 
Era mortali, Democrito, per certo 
Ei si smascellerebbe della risa, 
Guardando le sciocchezze de' mortali. 

Chiabrera. 

How came the poet so transformed? 

This question, so naturally asked, and so difficult to an- 
swer, is important for the future interest in my hero. Let 
me beg, therefore, some attentive consideration of the causes 
which influenced him ; let me trust the reader will be as 
ready to detect the real force of such circumstances on such 
a nature, and by imagining himself in the same position, 
extenuate the errors of a youth. 

Poets are proverbially vain, impressionable, and luxu- 
rious; working by fits and starts, as the impulse moves 
them ; and hating all continued toil that is not forced upon 
them by some overmastering idea; very sensible to all the 
refinements of luxury; and very liable to act upon their 
hopes as if they were established certainties. 



58 RANTHORPE. 

These general qualities Ranthorpe shared; and added 
thereto certain peculiarities of position and education which 
made his fall the easier. He had been bred amidst pinch- 
ing economy, with the constant dinning in his ears of 
maxims relative to the omnipotence of wealth; he had 
dined for weeks together on dry bread, to be able to pur- 
chase some envied book ; he had known all the miseries of 
being placed at the bottom of the social ladder; and now 
he dined off the rarities and delicacies of the season, and 
drank the costliest wines: things which had a sort of 
poetical magnificence to him, who had only dreamt of 
them in reveries. 

The fascinations which daily tempted his soul, and 
finished by subduing it, were fascinations to him. To 
those born to splendour — to those even who had known 
the ease and comfort of moderate incomes — the things 
which affected Ranthorpe would have had little attraction. 
But he had been poor, and was suddenly plunged into 
society where every one was rich ; he had been a miserable 
attorney s clerk at a salary often shillings a week, and was 
suddenly elevated to the society where his family — nay, 
where his former master — would not have been admitted 
on any sort of plea. 

It is necessary to remember this if one would understand 
the sort of intoxicated vanity which filled him, as he lounged 
into the large and splendid rooms, or rolled along in the luxu- 
rious equipages of his friends. The respect which footmen 
and hall porters (those incarnations of fat insolence) invari- 
ably paid the man — in whose face a little while ago they 
would have slammed the door — pleased him no less than the 
flattery of the drawing-room. The sensations which he felt 
as he was driven through the parks, seated beside some 
dandy, or some lady of fashion, it is impossible to describe ! 



THE POET OUT IN THE WOELD. 59 

He gazed upon the foot passengers with a serene good 
nature. He was sure they must be envying him. Yet, he 
had no carriage — his genius alone gave him the seat he 
occupied ! 

And, then, the contrast between the manners of his new 
friends and those of the society he had been bred in! 
The low soft voice, the easy carriage, the constant cour- 
tesy of manner, even in uttering the greatest imperti- 
nences — the thousand indescribable nothings, effects of 
long habit and education, which distinguish well-bred 
people, compared with the loudness, blunt coarseness, 
undisguised impertinence, and inelegance of his former 
associates, made a very strong impression on him. He 
felt a childish delight in wearing yellow kid gloves in the 
street, on reflection that formerly he had seldom worn 
gloves at all. Every way his senses tempted him. What 
wonder he succumbed ! Was he not luxurious, and a mere 
boy? 

One had need be both, to be so intoxicated ! 

The society he mixed with flattered all his propensities. 
To please his friends he had no need of study — and he 
was idle. Their admiration gratified his vanity, and their 
wealth ministered to his luxury. 

This was the fruit of his lionism. People were pleased 
to have him at their parties; he amused them. But these 
very people would not have given him a sixpence ; could 
not have assisted him in the world of literature. The 
unfortunate poet had renounced the dream of being, like 
a second Petrarch, crowned in the Capitol, for that of being 
crowned in the drawing-room. 

And was not his love for Isola strong enough to save 
him ? Alas ! no. That, too, had not escaped the conta- 
minating influence of his ambition. At first he had re- 



60 EANTHORPE. 

garded his elevation into a higher sphere of society as a 
triumph which he should one day call her to share. But, 
as the purity of his intentions became effaced by contact 
with impure ambition, he began to blush for her ! He 
felt that the social inferiority of his future wife would be 
an insuperable barrier to her admission into "circles," 
where he fancied he was admitted solely for his genius; 
not reflecting that handsome young men, of gentlemanly 
bearing, and living in a certain style, are always gladly 
invited to parties; and that he, in spite of his genius, 
would not have been admitted, had he not appeared in a 
decent coat and cravat. 

He struggled and sophisticated with himself; he would 
not own that his engagement was irksome, but he felt it 
deeply. He felt that, with Isola, he had nothing but a 
laborious and precarious existence to look forward to. 

" Are all the energies that pant within me to be frit- 
tered away," he would ask himself, "wasted in the despe- 
rate struggle for daily bread? Must I renounce my 
dreams ? Must I abjure the doctrines which I burn to 
teach, for those only that will sell ? Must I, too, write for 
the market? Horrible! horrible!" 

And the coxcomb, who had no convictions of his own, 
shuddered at the idea of writing for the popular wants. 
The adventurer, who had abjured his mission to maintain 
a wretched place in society, cheated himself with these 
high-sounding phrases. Thus must we ever cheat our- 
selves with the image of virtue, even when our baser 
impulses plunge us into vice. 

It is one of the peculiarities of imaginative natures, that 
they are so prompt to furnish the instruments of their 
own destruction. They are so dangerously fertile in 
excuses for their own acts ! They are so dangerously 



THE POET OUT IN THE WOKLD. 61 

endowed with the faculty of turning their weaknesses into 
apparent calculations — their wishes into necessities, that, 
for an act which a well-principled but duller man could 
find no excuses, and would therefore shun with horror, 
they can invent such imperious justifications, such magni- 
ficent sophisms, as, instead of turning them aside in horror, 
urge them to pursue their course in triumph. Imagination 
creates idols, and then falls down to worship them. 

Ranthorpe was sincere, even in his falsehood. He was 
his own dupe. It should also be added, that he very 
seldom saw Isola; so that the evil influences of lionism 
were not counteracted by her presence. Other thoughts 
effaced her image from his heart. She was not often 
enough by his side effectually to renew the impression. 
He was unworthy of her; and this made him feel uneasy 
in her presence. He felt lowered before her. The 
sophisms which deluded him never withstood the limpid 
clearness of her good sense. Her intellect was too upright 
and truthful to accept the excuses which to him were 
valid. She did not tell him so ; but he felt it. He felt 
that the reasons which to him were irresistible, to her 
were not even plausible ; and he felt considerable anger 
at her not sharing his illusions. Men resent nothing more 
than contradiction on a point, which they themselves feel 
uneasy about. Truth may be disputed with impunity; 
a sophism can only be torn from out the mind with a 
violence that lacerates and embitters. 



62 KANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 

Son los estudiantes, madre, 

De muy mala condicion; 
Que al mirar una buena moza, 

Mas no estudian la leccion. 

Song of the SeviUian Students. 

Est enim leporum 
Disertus puer ac facetiarum. 

Catullus. 

The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, 
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best 
Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality: 
And so the prince obscured his contemplation 
Under the veil of wildness. 

Shakspeare. 

Isola was waiting for Ranthorpe bjc the Kensington 
Gate of Hyde Park. He had written to appoint this 
meeting, to say adieu before leaving town. As her 
duties were not very absorbing, she easily escaped, upon 
some plea of shopping, which Lady Theresa always ac- 
cepted ; and this was the only means she had of speaking 
with her lover. 

A weary half hour past the appointed time — which 
was quadrupled by her anxiety — had she waited, and 



THE MEDICAL STUDENT- 63 

still no sign of her lover. She felt this neglect the more, 
not only because she knew he was master of his time, 
but also she had observed of late that his manner was 
greatly changed towards her. Ready enough to make 
excuses for him, she could not help feeling hurt. While 
musing on this, she suddenly heard quickened footsteps 
behind her, and, thinking it was her lover, turned round 
a beaming face of welcome. To her surprise and an- 
noyance, she met the smiling glance of a young gentle- 
man who was following her with strictly ^honourable 
intentions. 

Blushing at her mistake as much as at his insulting 
glance, she walked rapidly on. In an instant he was at 
her side; and addressed to her, between the puffs of his 
cigar, various jocular pleasantries touching her charms, and 
his very discriminating appreciation of them. Without 
daring to look up, she hastened her pace. 

" Don't hurry, my little divinity," said her tormentor, 
" and pray don't be alarmed. What can make you fly 
from such a lamb as I am?" and a voluminous column of 
smoke issued from his mouth. 

This lamb was Harry Cavendish, the medical student 
whom we introduced to the reader in the first chapter of 
this tale. 

His not very prepossessing exterior, joined to the easy 
impertinence of his address, so terrified poor Isola, that it 
was some time before she could summon courage to answer 
him. 

" Now, my inestimable bandbox, don't be modest," said 
he; il you're really very handsome." 

" I beg, sir, you will cease addressing me," she said, 
calmly; " I do not know you." 

" Exactly ! the very reason why you should remain quiet 



64 RANTHORPE. 

till you do. Running away is not the readiest method of 
forming a lasting acquaintance; nor is silence the most 
satisfactory sort of eloquence. Restrain your paces, my 
angel, and listen. I am Hyacinth Napoleon Potts, heir 
to an earldom, fortune unknown. You are — " 

" Are you a gentleman ?' she inquired, with some 
effort. 

Harry puffed forth a column of smoke, and said, 

" Do I look like a tailor?" 

A tailor, be it observed, is the last degradation huma- 
nity can reach in the opinion of medical students; and it 
is probably owing to this contempt for their persons, that 
arises the indifference to notice their bills, which has 
been remarked as characteristic of the students. 

" I ask you, sir, if you are a gentleman?" she pursued, 
her voice regaining its accustomed power. " Not how 
you look, but how you feel. If you are one, you must 
see that your language is an insult, and an insult to a 
woman who cannot repel it !" 

Harry gazed at her for a moment incredulous; but 
though a "rip," he was a gentleman, and struck by the 
unmistakeable sincerity and dignity of her manner, and 
the earnestness of her tone, raised his hat respectfully, 
and replied, 

" Since you are serious, I can only apologise for my 
mistake.' 3 

She bowed and passed on. He watched her till out of 
sight, and then resumed his promenade. 

This incident represents two phases of his character; 
and as he is about to occupy a large portion of this his- 
tory, I may as well pencil his prominent peculiarities. 

Harry Cavendish was, to most people, a mere medical 
student, of ebullient animal spirits, extreme good nature, 



THE MEDICAL STUDENT. 65 

somewhat slang and dissipated. To those who knew him 
as did Ranthorpe (with whom he had recently become 
acquainted), he was a very different being; though 
the mixture of slang and sentiment in his composition 
was a perpetual puzzle. He was certainly not one of 
those who " wear their hearts upon their sleeves, in com- 
pliment externe." Nothing could be finer than his real 
nature ; but it was somewhat tarnished and distorted by 
his education, and by habits picked up from his fellow- 
students. The unpretending heroism which pulsed be- 
neath that extravagant exterior and dissipated habits — the 
delicacy and generosity of feeling which distinguished 
him, this tale will fully exhibit. He was really as roman- 
tic as he aspired to be rakish; he was not a " rough dia- 
mond," but never was diamond set in more extravagant 
bad taste. His virtues were his own ; his vices he owed 
to his position as a student. 



66 



KANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE LOVERS' MEETING. 

How her heart beats ! 

Much like a partridge in a sparhawk's foot, 
That with a panting silence does lament 
The fate she cannot fly from. 

Massingek. 

Not unobserved did Harry quit his pursuit of Isola. 
Ranthorpe entered the park in time to see him raise his 
hat and depart. A feeling of jealousy first shot across 
his heart; but the respectful manner in which Harry had 
taken his leave, soon suggested the thought of his being 
a stranger. But when did he learn to know her; and 
how? 

These and other thoughts assailed him, as he walked 
rapidly towards Isola, whose agitation, when they met, 
puzzled and irritated him. He resolved not to begin 
upon the subject, that he might see whether she would 
refer to it. 

The air was warm, and lazily fanned their cheeks; the 
sky was cloudless, and dim with heat ; every thing with- 
out bespoke calmness and happiness — a painful contrast 
to the " world within" of these two lovers. 



THE lovers' meeting. 67 

She met him with a palpitating heart — a heart wounded 
by neglect, yet fluttering with its love. He came hag- 
gard, despondent, and bitter. At the first glance of his 
wretchedness, she forgave him; her pangs were forgotten 
in her sympathy with his. 

After a few questions and answers — excuses mostly, — 
he could no longer restrain himself from asking how long 
she had known Harry Cavendish. She did not under- 
stand him. He then told her how he had seen Harry bid 
her adieu but a few minutes before. She related what 
had happened. 

Eanthorpe was silent. His brow was so gloomy that 
Isola dared not question him ; so in silence they walked 
on. He was suffering a martyrdom of vanity at the 
thought of his affianced bride's social position. "To be 
spoken to by every roue — to be treated as a milliner,'' he 
said to himself: " no more free from insult than the 
humblest of her sex; and perhaps my friends will recog- 
nise in my wife, the girl whom they have attempted to 
seduce \ n 

These thoughts irritated him. So keen was the expres- 
sion of pain upon his countenance, that Isola attributed his 
silence to physical suffering. She ventured timidly to ask 
him if he were ill. 

" Not precisely ill," he said, " but jaded. Late hours — 
heated rooms — dissipation," he was glad of the excuse, so 
continued: "moreover, the sad necessity of mixing in the 
ruinous frivolities of society." 

"Why mix in them?" she asked, with divine sim- 
plicity. 

But this home-thrust of natural logic pierced not the 
thick shield of vanity. She could not understand how men 
cling to follies which they see through, and which they 

f2 



68 



RANTHORPE. 



abuse in bitterness of spirit. As the drunkard in his sober 
moments curses wine, so could Ranthorpe curse society. 

" I must court it," be said, " altbougb I despise it. In 
London tbere is no success without friends. Every thing 
is got by interest. Patient merit must be content with its 
patience.'" 

4< But can you not rely upon yourself?" said she. 

" No," replied he, " I cannot in England; elsewhere I 
might. In England, merit unheralded wins no victory; 
unpatronised, gains no attention : the soldiers win the 
battle, but the generals get the fame. If genius be 
struggling and starving, it may struggle and starve ; but 
if it seems to have no need of the world, the world is at 
its feet." 

"But, dearest, are you not already known? Your poems 
have been wonderfully successful ; and your society is sought 
by those you call influential; will they not assist you?" 

" Assist I" he said, bitterly. " Yes — yes — the assistance 
of friends — we know that !" 

" How bitter you are." 

" Bitter? Ay, lessons of adversity are bitter! Is it 
not bitter to find youthful dreams nothing but dreams? 
To find all your hopes unrealised, thoughts misunder- 
stood, friends false, and fame a mockery? Is it not 
bitter," he continued, grinding his teeth, " to see the 
courageous heart of man cowed into nothingness by the 
swart shadow of Respectability? Is it not bitter to see 
the tinsel of the gauds of life fixed on the pedestals where 
should stand the men of genius? Is it not bitter to dis- 
cover that the grand mistake in life is sincerity, and that 
one had better have every vice, and agree with the world ? 
than every virtue and differ with it ?" 

He was acting. Instinctively, but dimly, Isola felt it. 



THE lovers' meeting. 69 

These phrases, however, affected her, not in themselves, 
but as indicative of the state of his mind. Oh ! how unlike 
had he become to that young poet, who on eight-pence a 
day had looked cheerily in the face of the world, and — 

" Strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield*"* 

" The seal is taken off my eyes," he continued. " The 
veil is lifted which conceale4 the world ; I see it now in 
all its shivering nakedness — -for I am poor" 

" You have been poorer," she mildly suggested. " Oh ! 
Percy, do not despair. Think not so ill of the world : it 
is full of love and kindness, and will cherish its teacher." 

" Cherish? Yes: when I am dead! — They break the 
poet's heart; but ; oh ! good people! they honour his ashes. 
They throw the living man into prison ; or let him starve 
and rot. The dead man is placed in Westminster Abbey, 
under Latin inscriptions. The workhouse and a monu- 
ment — these are the poet's rewards !" 

" You exaggerate." 

" No; I speak but the truth. We authors live for hu- 
manity: if we fail, men laugh at us; if we succeed, they 
envy and malign us; if we differ from them, they trample 
on us !" 

She made no reply. Her truthful nature, however 
unsuspicious, could not accept his acting as natural feeling. 
She felt that there was something beneath his words and 
manner, though she knew not what. 

u I must maintain my footing in society," he said, 
shortly afterwards, " at the cost of the greatest privations. 
In England to seem poor is to be poor. And of all curses 
poverty is the worst." 

* Tennyson. 



70 RANTHORPE. 

" You did not always think so." 

" Not when I was younger, less experienced. Besides," 
he added, and his voice faltered, "I had only then to 
brave it for myself. Now I have to think of you; and 
to think of you in want, is fearful to me." 

"And is it for me? — "she began, with a look of 
triumphant tenderness. 

"For you — for you," he, replied, "I would have all 
that wealth can bestow." 

"And what is this boasted all that money can be- 
stow?" she said, with enthusiasm, quite thrown off her 
suspicions by that one hint. " Money can furnish pa- 
laces, but it cannot fill the heart; it cannot purchase the 
supporting strength of love. It can make the brow glitter 
with jewels ; can it make the cheek glow with ruddy 
health? Can it chase the quivering from an anguished 
lip — a tear from the burning eye? Can it give health — 
repose' — content? Not one of these! Then what a. 
splendid braggart is this wealth !" 

He smiled mournfully at her enthusiasm, and said, 
" You think so because you are young." 

"I think so because I. love !" 

" Frankly, then, do you not dread poverty — if not for 
yourself, then at least for your children ?" 

" No. I have courage. Poverty is the least evil 
that can affect me. Love makes life's burdens light." 

" Truly ; but it is no shield against misfortunes." 

" Yes, Percy, against every thing. We have in this life 
all to struggle, and much to endure. Life's harmony must 
have its discords ; but as in music, pathos is tempered into 
pleasure by the pervading spirit of beauty, so are all life's 
sorrows tempered by love." 



THE LOVEKS' MEETING. 71 

" Then should that love be very certain, " he said, 
fixedly. 

" Who doubts ours?" The calm trustingness with 
which she said this, made Percy wince; looking into her 
exquisite face he saw an irresistible commentary on her 
words. He was silenced. His silence awoke strange 
misgivings in her breast. " Surely, Percy, you have no 
doubts of me ?" 

"Listen, Isola; and listen calmly. We are now at a 
point in our lives when a false step will be irrecover- 
able. You are still very young, and may not know your 
own heart. Mind; I do not doubt your love. No ! But 
how often is a first love succeeded by a second, and a 
third — when wider experience — but, good heavens ! you 
are crying !" 

Crying ! her young heart was breaking ! One flash of 
light had revealed to her the abyss on the brink of which 
she was standing. 

"Isola, Isola! Do not weep. I was talking but of 
possibilities — things which may never be, but which must 
be looked in the face. Come, come; don't be foolish." 

" I foreboded it," she sobbed. 

"Foreboded what?" he asked, with some irritation. 

" That it would come to this. 5 ' 

"Come to what?" 

" You do not love me !" 

"Very well! very well! Directly I wish to talk 
reasonably, I am supposed to love you no more! Just 
like women ! But you will not hear me !" 

" I have heard too much already for mj peace. Our 
engagement alarms you." 

"It does — but on your account. You know how I 
have faced poverty; you know how little I care for the 



72 KANTHORPE. 

world. But you do not know how hideous poverty is, 
when you see it brought upon another by your means ! 
I dread it, because it would destroy that which gives life 
its value — love ! Think of us, married, and poor. My 
temper is irritable — want sours the best of tempers. I 
should be cross to you — and then the necessity for in- 
cessant labour will keep me perpetually away from your 
side. Oh !" he exclaimed, passionately, "love never could 
survive that ! Love, which lives upon perpetual kindness, 
which is grace, beauty, happiness — could not survive the 
blistering curse of poverty." 

Isola continued weeping, but made no reply. 

" Then, to think of you in want — your beauty tarnished 
by suffering — your hands hardened by labour — and our 
children, so many silent reproaches on the parents who 
brought them into the world, without the means of feeding 
them when there. The thought is appalling !" 

She had checked her sobs, and dried her eyes. A 
sudden resolution had given her fortitude. In a calm, 
low, but unfaltering voice she said : 

" Percy, you are right. Our union would be cursed 
with poverty; and that, as you say, is the worst of ills; 
and I agree with you — when love is absent. I should be 
a burden to you. I should have blighted your prospects. 
Think no more of it. From this moment consider me as 
a sister." 

The agony which distorted her face belied the calmness 
of her manner. Percy felt it — and felt a sudden sense of 
humiliation, at having given one who loved him such 
pain. He could not continue the part he had assumed. 
He unsaid all that he had said; he protested that his 
fears were dissipated by her confidence; he conjured her 
to forget them — to think only of his undying love; to 



THE lovers' meeting. 73 

hope in the future. He was passionate — eloquent — and 
in earnest. She was too willing to believe him ; and they 
parted with mutual vows and mutual protestations, that 
the future must bring them happiness, if they could await 
it courageously. 

Percy returned home in a state of great excitement. 
This soon wore off; and he almost repented of the termi- 
nation to their interview, when he came calmly to look at 
his condition. He did not know it, but the truth was, 
that his love for Isola was stifled by other feelings. It 
was a love which had its roots in the heart of the manful, 
struggling, dreamy poet ; but which was altogether out of 
place in the heart of an idle, intoxicated, feverish Lion ! 



74 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER V. 

FIRST LESSONS OF ADVERSITY. 

Viendole asi D. Quijote le dijo: yo creo, Sancho, que todo este 
mal te viene de no ser armado caballero. 

Cekvantes. 

What a bridge 

Of glass I walk upon, over a river 

Of certain ruin, mine own weighty fears 

Cracking what should support me. 

Massingek. 

Voila, disais-je, un homme qui s'est donne le temps de penser 
avant d'ecrire; et moi, dans le plus difficile et le plus perilleux des arts, 
je me suis hate de produire presqu' avant que d'avoir pens£." 

Makmontel : Memoires. 

Ranthorpe had soon to learn the bitter lesson of how 
impotent were all his " powerful friends," to bring him 
one step nearer to the goal of his ambition. 

This announcement appeared in the papers : 

" On Monday next, the 15th, will be published, in one 
vol., 8vo, 10s., 

LYRICS, 

By Percy Ranthorpe, Esq., 

Author of the ' The Dreams of Youth.' 

Also, Dreams of Youth. Third Edition. 

* Exquisite imaginings.' — Morning Paper. 



FIRST LESSONS OF ADVERSITY. 15 

* A volume of lofty ideality. Mr. Ranthorpe will take rank beside 
the most intellectual of our poets.' — Evening Paper." 

Those who read this announcement were naturally pre- 
pared for a volume of some pretensions. Reviews were 
awaited with impatience. It was a publication of some 
moment : it made or marred the poet. 

Authors do not sufficiently consider this. Instead of 
surpassing themselves in their second attempt, they gene- 
rally produce something inferior to their first. But if the 
second be really equal to the first, it will be thought infe- 
rior, because the public expect more. 

The "Lyrics" were confidently, carelessly written : pro- 
ducts of necessity, not of inspiration : written because the 
poet wanted to bring out another volume, not because 
feelings and thoughts within him struggled for utter- 
ance. 

With this inferiority in poetical value, the " Lyrics" 
had to contend against the severity of a watchful criticism, 
which the " Dreams of Youth " had disarmed. Those 
who were really influential — who had spared the youth 
and inexperience of his former volume — who had cheered 
him to fulfil the promise he had given, recommending* 
study and care — these men were all against him. Whe- 
ther some feeling of indignation at having been deceived, 
or of his not having taken their advice, mingled with 
their feelings of distaste at the carelessness and conceit 
exhibited in this volume, I will not say. Critics, like 
other men, resent their prophecies not being fulfilled. 
Certain it is, however, that this volume plainly told them 
that here also was another noble spirit ruined by success. 
The cutting severity of their reviews was heightened by the 
evident sorrow which accompanied their blame. 



76 EANTHOEPE. 

One sentence from a review I may here transcribe, as 
falling in with the moral lesson meant to be conveyed by 
this tale: 

" Mr. Ranthorpe has mistaken the conditions of rapid 
"writing. The history of literature would convince him 
that no one ever produced excellent works in quick 
succession, who had not qualified himself by many years' 
study and reflection. He who has accumulated stores 
of experience may write rapidly, because the interval 
which must elapse before his materials are exhausted will 
itself be long enough for him to accumulate fresh mate- 
rials. The neglect of this obvious rule is the ruin of so 
many young men, who, after giving splendid promises, 
dwindle into insignificance: buds that never become 
flowers; fruits that are rotten before they are ripe." 

Not only were the serious critics severe ; but the ei small 
fry " were outrageous. The volume was received with 
universal condemnation. 

Eanthorpe suffered deeply, horribly. In vain did he 
endeavour to console himself by saying these criticisms were 
the productions of " envy" — in vain did he try to shut his 
eyes to the failure manifest before him. In vain did he 
exclaim, " these criticisms live only for the day; my poems 
will survive them." In vain did he sophisticate; there 
were not forty copies sold. 

What then became of his " powerful friends?" They had 
been his flatterers; more they could not be. "Powerful 
friends" could not give him genius, could not endow his 
verse with vitality and beauty. " Powerful friends" were 
not reviewers — " powerful friends" were not the public. 

Too many aspirants share this idle delusion about pow- 
erful friends for me not to insist upon it here. One 



FIRST LESSONS OF ADVERSITY. 77 

illustration, striking and conclusive, will suffice. It is this. 
When noblemen, as they often do, enter the field of litera- 
ture, all the prestige of their names, all the influence of 
their " powerful connexions," can neither force their works 
upon the public, nor redeem them from ridicule and con- 
tempt. Hundreds of instances might be quoted : but the 
fact is sufficiently patent in itself. I would ask the as- 
pirant, therefore, this simple question: If" the great" can- 
not help one of themselves, what likelihood is there of their 
succeeding for a protege? 

But worse than all, " powerful friends" not only give no 
laws to the public, but absolutely receive its verdict; and 
what it refuses to accept as poetry, they regard as trash ! 
Ranthorpe was shorn of his glorious mane : he went into 
society, and found himself no longer a Lion ! 

He had to learn, not only the impotence of a coterie, 
but the serious truth that literature is not a field to sport 
in: that there, insolence and audacity are quickly crushed; 
and that a man is not, there, accepted for what he holds 
himself. He had to learn that puffery or luck, though it 
may give a momentary success, cannot sustain it: real 
ability alone does that. Sooner or later, the puffed-out 
wind-bag, floating so buoyantly aloft, is pricked by a pin, 
and then tumbles into the mire, never to rise again. A 
first success is jthe premier pas ; but in literature, it is not 
the premier pas qui coute. 

At any other time, this failure might have opened his 
eyes to his true position. But alas ! his eyes were dazzled, 
his head was turned, his heart was intoxicated. Love 
abetted vanity in deceiving him. 

Yes, love ! — He had fallen into the snares of the fasci- 
nating Florence Wilmington ; fallen slowly, unconsciously, 
but irretrievably. He had been much thrown with her 



78 EANTHOEPE. 

during his stay at Rushfield Park. She had determined 
to captivate him, and succeeded. Since his return to 
town, he had been a frequent visitor at Lady "Wilming- 
ton's; and had drunk deeply of the poisoned goblet which 
the lily hand of Florence held up to him. 



THE TWO SISTERS. 79 



CHAPTER VI. * 

THE TWO SISTERS. 

Sweet alluring eyes; a fair face made in despite of Venus, and a 
stately port in disdain of Juno ; a wit apt to conceive and quick to 
answer. What of this ? Though she have heavenly gifts of beauty, 
is she not earthly metal, flesh, and blood ? 

Lyly: Alexander and Campaspe. 

But the heaven-enfranchised poet 

Must have no exclusive home. 
He must feel and gladly show it, — 

Phantasy is made to roam : 
He must give his passions range, 

He must serve no single duty, 

But from Beauty pass to Beauty, 
Constant to a constant change. 

MONCKTON MlLNES. 

Florence Wilmington was a flirt — that is to say, she 
had great animal spirits, great vanity, and as a spoiled 
child, had never been taught to heed consequences. Ran- 
thorpe was handsome, celebrated, and lively; he was, 
therefore, a very proper flirting companion. She began 
to throw her spells around him at first innocently enough; 
but when she found that the impassioned poet was be- 
coming serious, and supposed her to be so, she thought of 
putting an end to the game. Just as she was about to 



80 EANTHORPE. 

quit Rushfield Park, however, Sir Henry Varden warned 
her not to lose her heart to Ranthorpe, as his was engaged 
elsewhere, She was surprised; scrutinised Ranthorpe's 
manner closely; and jumped to the conclusion that he 
was an adventurer feigning love in hopes of making 
her a stepping-stone. Her vanity was piqued, and she 
resolved in secret to punish him, by making him really 
and desperately in love with her. Accordingly, on reach- 
ing London, she began a system of alternate coolness and 
tenderness, irritating and maddening the unhappy poet, by 
keeping him in a constant fever of suspense and doubt. 

Ranthorpe long endeavoured to hide from himself that 
he loved her. He juggled with his conscience; and tried 
to convince himself that it was only her lively manners, 
which, made him prefer dancing with or talking to her; 
and he thought of Isola, and tried to make her image 
drive that of Florence from his heart ; but in vain. He 
seldom saw Isola ; and when he did, he was always 
despondent. Florence, on the other hand, always either 
animated him beyond expression, or made him jealous and 
exasperated. Do what he would, Florence alone occupied 
his thoughts. 

While he was thus carried away by the fascina- 
tions of one sister, another sister was silently che- 
rishing a secret adoration for him. Fanny was very 
unlike Florence. Without being plain, yet her com- 
plexion was so sallow, and so lined with illness ard 
melancholy, that she seemed plain at first sight. Those 
who loved her, thought her beautiful. There was a deep 
quiet in her hazel eye, and a winning sweetness in her 
smile, which few could withstand. But she had no admirers 
among young men, she was so shy and reserved. Elderly 



THE TWO SISTEKS. 81 

men, with whom she felt more at ease, pronounced her a 
paragon. 

In character she was as earnest as her sister was frivo- 
lous. Ill-health had greatly secluded her from society, 
and had thrown her upon the society of her books. In 
the solitudes of her library she had formed her heart and 
mind. The result was an excessive shyness, which veiled 
with coldness a warm, loving, and romantic nature. Her 
days were usually spent with her aunt, Lady Theresa. 
There she learned to know and value Isola, for whom she 
conceived a strong sisterly affection. Fanny understood 
Isola ; Isola understood her, and loved her. 

Between these two beings there never was a suspicion 
of "the difference of station." From the first, their 
relation towards each other had been divested of all con- 
ventionality. One secret alone was ever kept from each 
other — their mutual love for Ranthorpe. 

Yes, Fanny loved Ranthorpe, though she knew it not. 
He had been the first young man whom she could admire, 
who had vanquished her diffidence. A few interviews 
with him, in which they, unrestrained, poured forth all 
that was in their hearts, had completely subjugated her. 
In such natures love is of sudden growth ; and Ranthorpe, 
quite unconscious of the poison he was instilling, pleased at 
having a listener who so well appreciated him, sought her 
society whenever he could not engross that of Florence. 
As Fanny always saw him so very lively when with 
Florence, she did not suspect his attachment. Love to 
her was always serious. 

Ranthorpe had no suspicion of the love he inspired. 
In fact, he had eyes for no one but Florence — no thoughts 
for any one but for Florence, and she made him mise- 

G 



82 RANTHOKPE. 






rable. Remorse for his treachery to Isola, and doubts 
respecting Florence, tortured him. 

At this juncture, Wynton one day called, and rinding 
him in a very excited state, began talking on his prospects. 
From several incoherent remarks, Wynton at length 
divined the real cause of his unusual excitement, and 
said abruptly to him : 

" Percy, you are in love with Florence Wilmington." 
He started, and coloured. 

"Do not deny it," continued Wynton; "look your 
malady boldly in the face, and I will help you to cure it." 

"Malady!— cure!" 

"Malady, yes — poison! There, go and blow your 
brains out at once. Do any thing but give up your 
heart to be gnawed by the cruellest of all vultures — a 
coquette." 

" You are raving, Wynton." 

"I am horribly serious. It is my friendship for you 
makes me so ; if my manner is a little wild, it is owing to 
recollections which .... Enough ! I tell you, in sober 
sadness, that your passion for Florence Wilmington, if 
you do not conquer it, will be the greatest misfortune 
that can befal you." 

" Do you know her?" 

"I? No. But I know ... I know what 2" suf- 
fered. Percy, I have never told you the history of my 
early life — and I rejoice at it; for now that history may 
serve as a warning to you, which you need. Will you 
listen to me calmly?" 

" Certainly. You pique my curiosity." 

" I shall not be long ; and you will see how nearly it 
concerns vou." 



WYNTON'S STORY. 83 



CHAPTER VII. 



With that low cunning which in fools supplies, 
And amply too, the place of being wise, 
Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave, 
To qualify the blockhead for a knave. 

Churchill. 

Thou art not fair; I view'd thee not till now — 
Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not — 
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt, 
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit. 
It grieves me not, to see how foul thou art; 
But mads me, that I ever thought thee fair. 

Arden of Faversham. 



" On leaving Cambridge," began Wynton, " I was, in 
common with, so many thousands of young men, a social 
anomaly, in a country where wealth or rank are the only 
passports to society. To the cultivation and education of 
a gentleman, I added the patrimony of a beggar, and the 
prospects of an adventurer. 

" My father was a clergyman, with a living of five 
hundred a-year, and nine children to absorb it. He 
pinched himself, to give me a college education. His 
pride lay in my talents ; and to give them a fair develop- 

G2 



84 RANTHORPE. 

ment, he willingly deprived Himself of every comfort. I 
was sent to college. I gained there some distinctions ; and 
left it with the firm conviction that I was to make the for- 
tune of my family. 

" Filled with classic lore, and minute scholarship, I 
went to London, expecting to find employment and emolu- 
ment at once. You may measure the extent of my 
simplicity by that one fact. My dear father was, however, 
equally simple. London, the great mart for talent of 
every description, seemed merely necessary to visit, and 
* something would be sure to turn up.' He recalled all the 
illustrious names of men who had risen from nothing, — 
forgetting the thousands who had perished in the struggle I 
We repeated all the commonplaces about force of merit, 
and certainty of protection, and doubted not but that I 
should soon be sought out by the rich and powerful. 

" Thus confident, I went to London; I will not detain 
you with a description of the gradual breaking up of my 
illusions. You can fancy how soon it was that I dis- 
covered my social insignificance in that vast centre of 
talents; how soon I felt the insufficiency of a scholarship 
equalled by hundreds, and surpassed by scores; how soon 
I felt the meagreness of that knowledge which had 
hitherto been my boast — 'the knowledge of books— com- 
pared with that far deeper knowledge of life, with which I 
saw so many gifted. The young student with the classics 
at his fingers' ends, soon finds himself a child in compa- 
rison with the man who has lived, and reflected on his 
experience. 

"A knowledge of the sciences is comparatively easy, and 
may be acquired by very ordinary intellects. Though it 
requires a great intellect to originate profound views, a 
child may learn them when originated, and therefore 



85 

ordinary intellects can acquire considerable knowledge of 
the laws of nature; but a knowledge of life is the result 
of abundant experience drawn by a reflective mind. The 
labours of philosophers, extending through centuries of 
observation and experiment, are amassed in books. There 
the student may find them, question them, and having 
furnished himself with their results, begin the study of 
nature, rich in the experience of ages. Not so the student 
of mankind. He is almost like a philosopher who should 
set to work to observe phenomena, without having studied 
the results obtained by others. No amount of experience 
is stored up in books for him to consult. He must study 
the living subject. He must draw his own conclusions. 
The works of poets and moralists, indeed, contain the re- 
sults of great experience ; but unfortunately these are of 
little help; we are unable to appreciate them till we our- 
selves have discovered the same truths. A man shall 
read Shakspeare for thirty years, and at the end of that 
period shall detect truths of human nature, which escaped 
him before : and why ?- — because he himself, not having dis- 
covered them before, could not recognise them when he 
saw them written. From poets, we learn confirmations of 
our views — never the views of human nature themselves. 
"The knowledge of life is marvellously complex: its 
materials are drawn from past experience, present obser- 
vation, and prevision of the future. In youth, we are 
subject to deceptions as much from the boundless confi- 
dence of hope, as from the dazzling novelty of our im- 
pressions. We have no standard to test things by. "We 
have no experience to correct the rashness of our wishes, 
and the immaturity of our judgment. In youth, we can 
seldom judge men aright; for to judge men aright, we 
require to be arrived at that age when experience is 



86 EANTHOEPE. 

weighty enough to balance the inventive nature of hope, 
and capable of analysing all impressions in the crucible of 
the understanding. In truth, a knowledge of men is 
always difficult and rarely certain, for men themselves are 
ever vacillating between new ideas and ancient prejudices; 
between their interests and passions. 

" In London I found myself a child. I might be great 
at Cambridge — honoured amongst silk gowns — immortal 
amongst gerunds — but in London I was a cypher. I could 
find no employment. I knew no one in the world of 
letters. I had done nothing to justify my pretensions. 
I was in that crowded city, anxious to get my bread by 
honest employment of my talents; and found thousands 
eager in the same pursuit. Ah ! how I longed to get 
an opening ! 

"I sent articles, tales, and poems to every magazine then 
published. I lived month after month upon the delicious 
cozenage of hope that one of the editors would at last 
have taste and judgment enough to recognise an unknown 
genius. You know enough of literature to judge what 
success I met with. I clung to my hopes tenaciously; 
but at length, in despair, I accepted a situation as private 
tutor in a rich Gloucestershire family. 

"To this, then, after a few months of glorious illusion 
and painful humiliation, had my boasted talents brought 
me ! To rust my energies, to waste the verdure of my 
life in a country house, instructing a heavy youth. 

"Yet my father never lost courage. He could not re- 
nounce his illusions. He could not admit his error of 
judgment. To have admitted it would have been to 
admit that he had wronged his other children by that 
error. He was forced to hope. I should distinguish 
myself even as a tutor ! Many a man had started from a 



wynton's stoky. 87 

less favourable point ; with my talents I was sure to excite 
general admiration and respect. I did so. I was the 
* lion ' of the county. You know how little it would re- 
quire to be the wonder of a county, so that I need affect 
no modesty on that point. 

"I was a wit, a scholar, and a gentleman: so said the 
county. The clergymen declared my scholarship con- 
siderable; and in return I admired their sermons. The 
men thought me a wit and a philosopher ; and the women 
adored my verses. I was treated as an honoured guest, 
not as a tutor. My society was sought. I was intoxi- 
cated with my success, and began again to hope. 

" You may here, my dear Ranthorpe, trace the generic 
resemblance of our fates ; what you were in London so- 
ciety, I was in Gloucestershire. Both of us exalted beyond 
our merits, and both of us nourished in presumptuous 
thoughts. But now attend ! and you will see a still closer 
resemblance to your history. 

" The sister of my pupil was then eighteen; and I fell 
in love with her. It would be impossible for me to paint 
her portrait, because I have since seen how false was my 
view of her; and if I were to paint it according to my 
present knowledge, you would never believe in the sin- 
cerity of my affection for her. Let me therefore rather 
say that, to my inexperienced eyes, she was all that she 
affected to be, and as good as she was beautiful. 

" It was a mad thought, in such a country as England, 
for a poor tutor to aspire to the only daughter of a wealthy 
gentleman: but what will not youth and passion dare? 
What anomalies will they not reconcile in fiery imagination ? 
I loved Fanny, and I never doubted that her father would 
consent to our union, in time. I loved her to distrac- 
tion, and it was not long before I knew she had remarked 



88 KANTHORPE. 

my passion. "Would she return it? That was rny per- 
plexity. 

" Return it she did, as far as in her nature lay. Flattered 
by the passion she had excited, it was evident to me that 
she returned it as much out of vanity as real affection ; but 
I was too enamoured, and too young to be scrupulous as to 
the means whereby I gained her love. She was deplorably 
ignorant; all education seemed useless with her; she had 
quickness, but could never learn. This want of intellect 
shocked me at first; but she seemed so angelical in dis- 
position, her sentiments were so noble, her sympathy so 
active, and her person so beautiful, that I soon forgot 
her poverty of brain. Alas! I loved her too well to 
detect the faults so glaring to others. 

" And then, in spite of her dulness of comprehension, 
she was the most consummate flatterer. Small as was her 
intellect, she seemed to have a more than animal quickness 
of instinct in detecting the foibles of those around her; 
and utterly destitute of convictions or earnestness, she 
could with equal facility adopt any opinion, any senti- 
ment, or any manner that would fit the opinion, sentiment, 
or manner of the person she was conversing with. She 
was like the chameleon reflecting the colour of every tree 
under which it reposes; she passed from the most con- 
tradictory ideas, and antagonistical sympathies, in the 
same evening — the same hour — with unparalleled ease. 
She flattered every body, and cared for none. For none — 
no, not even for me ; beyond the gratification of her vanity, 
which was pleased with the idea of the cleverest man in the 
county being her slave. I did not know this at that time 
— I did not suspect it. She was all enthusiasm, tenderness, 
and melancholy grace ; the tears would come into her eyes 
if I recited verses to her, or if I complained of a headache* 



wynton's story. 89 

She seemed ' wrapt in adoration.' I believed all this ; 
the fumes of vanity intoxicated me — delirious presump- 
tion distorted my judgment. 

4 ' Ah ! those were days of rapture and torture, such as I 
have never since experienced. Glorious visions of future 
happiness and greatness floated before my eyes. Intoxi- 
cating hopes and burning passions were the will-o' -wisps 
that lead my heart astray. And yet amidst these raptures 
were the poignant doubts which my social position gene- 
rated ; the fears that I was indulging in a dream from 
which I soon must waken ! 

" These fears became at last realities. A wealthy 
nobleman came to pass a few months at the house where 
I was tutor. He was evidently struck with Fanny, and 
she was as willing as usual to listen to his flatteries. The 
coquette ! how bitterly I cursed the vanity which could 
thus torture another's heart, as she knew she tortured 
mine. I reproached her with it. She wept — affected 
innocence — said it was only her manner — and that she 
meant nothing — vowed that she loved none but me. I 
was but too willing to believe her ! 

el All rapture now had fled, and grim despair seemed 
rooted in its place. Perpetual quarrels when alone ; per- 
petual jealousy when in company : this was my life. I 
could not be blinded to the fact that she encouraged her 
admirer ; but, at the same time, I was too young to un- 
derstand how she could reconcile it to her reiterated as- 
surances of undying affection for me. 

" The mystery became greater when the nobleman pro- 
posed, and was accepted ! "What ! said I to myself, 
actually accept him, and only last night she swore that I 
alone should ever have her love ! Great God ! is she a 
demon, or is she an idiot? 



90 RANTHOEPE. 

"We had a violent altercation directly we were left 
alone. I heaped the bitterest reproaches upon her, which 
she received with forced playfulness. She persisted in 
vowing unalterable love for me ; and declared that she had 
only accepted his proposal out of policy — her father being 
so bent on it that she feared her refusal might have ruined 
our prospects. 

" ' But you will marry him?' I exclaimed. 

" ' I will marry none but you,' she replied; ' you have 
my heart, you alone shall have my hand.' 

"'But how? 

"'Leave all to me. You look incredulous? What 
motive can I have in deceiving you ?'■ 

" ( None,' I replied, sorrowfully; for I had often asked 
myself the same question, and could never devise an answer. 

" Her caresses and promises dispelled my fears during the 
rest of the interview, but I became sombre and scep- 
tical immediately afterwards. I was ignorant enough of 
human life and human motives ; my ideas of them had 
been gathered from poetry and novels (those falsifiers of 
nature, the more pernicious because they pretend to truth), 
and I had familiarised myself with romantic adventures, 
the audacity of love, and the escapes t>f brides from de- 
tested unions even at the foot of the altar. I did not see 
how these were to operate in my favour; but Fanny 
seemed so confident that I trusted blindly to her inge- 
nuity. 

" Thus fretful and sophisticating, I passed the time al- 
lowed for the marriage preparations. I saw her trousseau, 
sometimes with a grim irony, sometimes with a sad fore- 
boding, according to the view I took of the probability of 
her being true or false to me. At length the last week 
arrived, and Fanny seemed as gay and bustling as any 



wynton's story. 91 

bride could be. I began to suspect that she was de- 
ceiving me, and would continue to do so to the very day. 
The thrilling horror of this thought almost maddened me. 
I rushed forth into the park and wandered distractedly 
about. Desperate thoughts, and violent plans, crossed 
and recrossed my brain; and I returned to the house so 
exhausted with emotion, that they all remarked my sickly 
appearance. I pleaded illness, and went up to my own 
room, where I dined by myself. That evening the whole 
party were going to a ball, given by one of their neigh- 
bours. I rejoiced in the idea of being left alone. 

" To quench the burning flame of jealousy which was 
devouring me — to deaden the conviction that I had wasted 
myself on a coquette — to stupify the wounded pride re- 
volting at the thought of my having been made a dupe — 
I drank largely of the generous claret. I remember with 
horrible distinctness my sensations : they were a mixture of 
keen anguish and heavy insensibility ; of vivid conception 
and sottish brutality ; the external universe seemed press- 
ing upon me with an intolerable weight ; and the vigorous 
mind seemed struggling to free itself from the oppression. 
I was not drunk, but besotted. Gross and brutal feelings 
seemed urging me to some desperate act. 

" About half-past ten I rose from my seat and left my 
room. The house was empty, and I wandered vacantly 
through the rooms, a sort of life-in-death. I know not from 
what motive, but I soon found myself in Fanny's bed- 
room. This seemed to have a sort of quieting influence over 
me ; my ideas became more vivid and less fantastic, less con- 
fused. It was her bed-room! I had never crossed the 
threshold before, and now I was seated in her very chair; , 
turning over her combs and brushes, her trinkets, and 



92 EANTHORPE. 

scent bottles ; touching the counterpane of her bed ; kiss- 
ing the curtains ; looking in her glass ; and picturing her 
also in the room ! 

" While thus yielding to delicious reveries I heard foot- 
steps approaching. Alarmed at the idea of being detected 
there, I hid myself behind the ample curtains of the bed. 
The house-maid entered, finished her work without de- 
tecting me, and left the room. 

" This put strange thoughts into my head. I examined 
the position of the bed and the amplitude of the curtains, 
and from every part of the room viewed the capabilities of 
the hiding-place ; and having satisfied myself on that 
score, I determined to await Fanny's arrival. 

" * I will endure this suspense no longer,' said I, ' this 
night shall decide my fate.' 

" The time dragged heavily onwards after this resolution ; 
but I grew more and more confirmed in it, as the time 
for its execution approached. The fumes of the wine had 
not yet gone off, but they did not stupify me so much as 
they had done. My head seemed as if bound with a 
wreath of burning iron ; the blood burnt along my veins ; 
a quenchless thirst scorched my palate ; and a dull, dogged 
sense of resolution filled my mind. When the party re- 
turned home, I felt capable of any crime. 

a Fanny came up to bed, chattering incessantly to her 
obsequious maid. I could not see her, but I recognised in 
her voice and manner an excitement produced by the 
flatteries and frivolities she had been enjoying. I heard 
her tell her maid all the persons she had danced with, all 
the dresses she had admired, or laughed at, and all the in- 
anities of which balls are composed. 

" At length, her maid finished her hair, placed every 



wynton's stoey. 93 

tiling ready, and departed. I no sooner heard the door 
shut, than I peeped cautiously out, and saw Fanny turn- 
ing over some letters — they were mine ! 

" In spite of my half-intoxication, and the dogged reso- 
lution it inspired in me, I had not courage to step forward; 
a fire burnt up my veins, but a cold perspiration covered 
my body. I watched in breathless silence, till my situation 
became insupportable, and I determined to venture forth. 
The house was silent, every one was abed, and, probably, 
after the fatigue, sound asleep ; so I murmured, ' Fanny,' 
in a gentle tone. She started ; and again pronouncing her 
name, with a caution to her not to be frightened, I stepped 
forth. 

" She was surprised, terrified, and indignant ; and ordered 
me to quit the room instantly, or she would alarm the 
house. 

" ' Alarm the house !' I replied, brutally, ' and let your 
future husband know why I am here. — This is folly ! Let 
us be calm and rational. You, alone, can suffer from any 
discovery. You dare not alarm the house : you know you 
dare not.' 

" ' That makes you courageous.' 

" ' No; it makes me resolved. Therefore, sit quiet, and 
listen to me. I am to be trifled with no longer. Tell me 
you do not love me, and then — ' 

" c What then?' she said, haughtily. 

" ' "Why, I may kill you for your falsehood ! Do not be 
terrified — I know not what I am saying ; but release me 
from this agony of suspense ; do you love me V 

" ' You know I do, 5 she answered, reproachfully. 

" ' How can I know it, when I see the preparations for 
your marriage with another ? — preparations, which you 



94 EANTHOEPE. 

take as much, apparent delight in as the happiest of brides. 
You do not answer ? — Beware, oh ! beware Y 

" ' You terrify me so that I have a good mind to punish 
you, by not telling you my object in appearing a happy 
bride/ 

" I was softened in an instant. I wanted an excuse for 
her, and she was going to furnish it. I entreated her to 
tell me what she meant. 

« « Why, as you know, my father would take no denial 
in private. He wishes the match; and, in his house, his 
wish is law. But he is very anxious to make a good 
figure in the eye of the world. Now, at the wedding, 
there will be a large assembly of our relations and friends, 
and if before them all I declare that my affections are 
another's, my father will not dare to force me ; and to pre- 
vent his forcing me, I intend at the altar saying, ' No.' 
This will create grand scandal; but the magnitude of it 
will be our safety. My hand will never be forced, when 
they see how determined I am.' 

" ' But why not elope ?' 

" ' For your sake. I am under age. You would be 
accused of abduction. No ; my father shall give me to 
you.' 

" I allowed myself to be convinced; and kissing her on 
the eyes, I crept to my own room. 

" The marriage bells were pealing; the day was bright 
and sunny. The bells seemed to mock me : I thought I 
could distinguish voices in them. The day was hideously 
glaring : I thought it also a mockery of my inward gloom. 
I had horrible misgivings. Fanny's plan was wild and 
romantic. I had read of such things, and they seemed 
probable ; but when the plan was about to be acted, it seemed 



95 

impossible. Obedient to her wish, I did not attend the cere- 
mony. But I could not forbear skulking about the outside 
of the church, with anxious ears awaiting some confusion 
to betoken an interruption of the ceremony. I expected 
every minute to see the doors open and people rush out. 

" All was silent: painfully silent. 

" I crept into the church, unable to endure the suspense, 
and felt the world turn giddily round me, as I saw the 
bridegroom in the act of passing the ring on the finger of 
his radiant bride. I staggered from the church. The 
soft breeze revived me for an instant. I wandered on, 
brooding thoughts of vengeance. I felt a sudden sickness 
and a film overspread my eyes. I sank senseless on the 
grass. 

" When I recovered, the sun was pouring his intolerable 
rays upon me ; the birds were twittering in the trees ; the 
blue sky above me was dotted with lazy clouds. For a 
moment I knew not where I was. 

" The pealing bells awakened me to consciousness. 

" I returned home as the ' happy pair' drove from the 
door, upon their marriage tour. The drama had ended; 
my deception was complete; and Fanny became Lady 
Wilmington" 

u Lady Wilmington !" exclaimed the astonished Kan- 
thorpe. 

" Yes, Lady Wilmington," bitterly repeated Wynton. 
" And now you see the closeness of our fates. What 
Fanny was, her daughter is — a coquette. She plays with 
you, as her mother played with me. You may fancy she 
loves you; perhaps she does, but that will not prevent 
her breaking your heart, for her love will not be a feather's 
weight upon her conscience !" 

There was a pause, during which each was absorbed in 



96 EANTHOKPE. 

his thoughts and recollections. Wynton was moved with 
the ripping open of old wounds ; and Ranthorpe was asto- 
nished at the wondrous history, and its connexion with 
his own. 

" You have made me sadder," said he, " from the suf- 
ferings you have endured, and from the hideous picture 
you have drawn of a woman whom I always thought a 
negative kind of being, without force of character enough 
to be bad — much less to be the demon you have drawn." 

" Yet she is not a demon," replied Wynton; " believe 
me she is a woman, and a not uncommon woman. When 
I was your age I thought as you do. Experience, and 
long studies of moral anatomy, have convinced me of my 
error. Calm now, I can read her character in its true 
light. Shall I read it aloud ?" 

" Do so — but no paradoxes I beg !" 

" None that I can help. Well, then, Fanny was simply 
and truly a victim of intense egotism with no intellect to 
direct it ; weak, vacillating, and unprincipled, she had no 
malignity, she had not force of character for any villany 
that did not spring from the negative vice of want of prin- 
ciple. Self was her only consideration, and she was reck- 
less what she sacrificed to it. She was gratified by my 
love in many ways. By her vanity she lived ; to gratify 
it was, therefore, to give her a vivid feeling of her ex- 
istence. Hence her delight in my passion. 

" She could not break off our intercourse when once her 
future husband had dazzled her with the prospect of a 
wealthy e establishment.' I say she could not, and for 
these reasons : 

" She would never sacrifice a gratification merely at the 
expense of another's suffering; and my love was a gratifi- 
cation, and I was easily deceived. 



wynton's stokt. 97 

" She could not bear to lie thought ill of by any person, 
no matter by whom ; it tortured her. She lived as I said 
by her vanity, and this vanity was inordinate; the praise 
of the meanest was food to her; and hence the pliancy 
with which she suited herself to every body's way of 
thinking. 

" But if to be thought ill of, even by a servant, was a 
pang to her, what would she have suffered if the man who 
then adored her were to turn his adoration to contempt? 
How much pleasanter to prolong that adoration till the 
last minute ! 

" As she never for an instant contemplated becoming 
my wife, she knew that I must detect her some day; all 
her art was required to delay that moment until she 
should see me no more. 

" Now, in supposing that I have read aright the motives 
of her conduct — stripped of the palliations and sophistica- 
tions of her own conscience — we have, as a result, the por- 
trait of a very unprincipled ivoman, sacrificing every thing 
to her intense egotism; but no demon. A demon, in 
our conception the incarnation of malignity, is not so 
odious as the incarnation of egotism. Malignity is respect- 
able in comparison : there is force and energy in it ; there 
is a defiance, and a power which extorts sympathy from 
us. As the highwayman is less contemptible than the pick- 
pocket, so is malignity less odious than egotism. The 
cruelty of egotism is not less than that of pure malignity ; 
but the motive is more contemptible. Satan is grand, 
terrible, sublime; Iago is utterly despicable. Moloch is 
loveable in comparison with Blifil. 

"Fanny was no demon, but an egotist; this explains her 
actions. Wherever you see intense egotism, you see more 
or less want of moral principle ; for whatever principle the 

H 



98 RANTHORPE. 

egotist exhibits, is only such as will keep him from the bar 
of justice or of public opinion. His real standard is not a 
moral, but a purely selfish one. Wherever you see a want of 
moral principle arising from a weakness of character (more 
than from defiance of society, or misdirected energy), there 
you will be sure to find a being capable of acts similar 
to those of the miserable girl we speak of. 

"Now," added Wynton, "tell me whether my story 
has been of any use to you, Percy?" 

" It has, indeed," said Ranthorpe, mournfully; "you 
have saved me from destruction." 



POOR ISOLA. 99 



CHAPTER VIII. 

POOR ISOLA. 

Je pense en vous et au fallacieux 
Enfant Amour, qui par trop sottement 
A fait mon ccsur aymer trop haultement; 
Si haultement helas ! que de ma peine 
N'ose esperer un brin d'allegement. 

Clement Marot. 

You held your course without remorse 
To make him trust his modest worth, 
And last you fixed a vacant stare, 
And slew him with your noble birth. 

Tennyson. 

My ears 
Receive, in hearing this, all deadly charms, 
Powerful to make men wretched. 

Massinger. 

Wynton's story had certainly made Ranthorpe very 
unhappy; but it had not cured him, it had not convinced 
him. This is one of the sad conditions of life, that ex- 
perience is not transmissible. No man can learn from the 
sufferings of another : he must suffer himself; each must 
bear his own burden. 

The reader will not wonder, therefore, if, the first time 
h2 

LOFC 



100 RANTHORPE. 






Ranthorpe saw Florence, after Wynton had distressed him 
with his story/all the doubts which that story had aroused 
were at once dispelled. One quadrille, one tender smile, 
sufficed to make him scorn the idea of Florence being at all 
like her mother. The more he thought of Lady Wilmington, 
and compared her with Florence, the more was he struck 
with the differences; and they were really many and im- 
portant. Lover like, he only saw the best side of his mis- 
tress — he only perceived the differences between her and 
her mother, without also noting the resemblances. 

In truth, he was in such an unhealthy state of irritation, 
intoxication, piqued will, and fascinated senses, that his 
mind could not have fairly apprehended the truth, how- 
ever clearly it might have been placed before him. He 
yielded himself up to the charm of being deceived, and 
would have thanked no one for undeceiving him. 

Wynton grieved to see the little influence he had ex- 
ercised; reproached him gently with it; but Ranthorpe 
had only one answer — Florence is not at all like her 
mother. 

Wynton rather angrily retorted: "Declare your love, 
then, and try her." 

" I will," was the haughty reply. 

The next day he was alone in the drawing-room with 
Florence. 

" You look ill," she said, with feigned anxiety. 

" I am unhappy." 

" Oh, if it's only that," she said, relapsing into her 

usual playful manner, " I have no pity Poets, you 

know, must be unhappy, to make the world believe in 
their poems." 

" That, perhaps, is the reason," he said, somewhat 
bitterly, "why the world ill-treats poets. It fears we 



POOR ISOLA. 101 

may not liave cause enough to weep, and so heaps 
scorn, envy, and neglect upon our sorrowing heads. 
We are the singing birds whose eyes men put out, to 
give more touching plaintiveness to our song." 

" Ah ga! vous allez done f aire le Byron?" 

" I am serious." 

" What, you complain of the world ?" 

" I complain of the one." 

"Oh, then there is one I thought so ! Now you 

must make me your confidante She must be very 

charming, to have captivated you; but still more hard- 
hearted to have been cruel to you. Voyons, Monsieur le 
poke Who is la belle perfide f 

" Do you not know her ?" he asked. 

" I cannot guess," she answered, with an air of utter 
unsuspiciousness. 

" Can you not read the feelings written o'er the face? 
Can you mistake the eyes ?" 

No one could have mistaken his eyes, or the tone of his 
voice, or his manner; but the persistent blindness of a 
coquette is one of the peculiarities of the race. Florence 
replied — 

" Who could not mistake eyes? They are such deceit- 
ful things ! Then, too, one never knows when you poets 
are in earnest — " 

"Are there not," he replied, passionately, "looks 
which utter what the faltering lips recoil from ? Are 
there not tones which pierce the husk of conversation, 
giving a meaning to unmeaning words? Is there not the 
fret — the anxiety — the fever — the jealousy — the flushed 
eheek and eager eye, to mark the true love from the 
feigned ?" 

" Yes — but you men ! Really you are such creatures I" 



102 RANTHOEPE. 

" Dare I proceed ?" 

" Assez — brisons la-dessus! You have been eloquent 
enough ; — and eloquence is dangerous." 

" You — understand me — then ?" 

" Perhaps — " Then, feeling that she had got to the 
uttermost limit, and that it was necessary to change 
the subject before it went further, she added, carelessly, 
4 '-Have you seen the 'Puritani?' Delicious, isn't it? 
Bellini is such a love of a composer !" 

" Pray do not trifle with me. Answer me, dear Miss 
Wilmington; do you — do you understand me?" 

" Allons, pas de sentiment! — T hate it. — Don't be thea- 
trical, mio caro poeta. Let us change the subject." 

Ranthorpe, stung by her manner, passionately replied, 
"Change the subject — I cannot change it! It haunts 
me like a dream. — It is all I ever think of. — My exist- 
ence is bound up in it !" 

"You forget yourself," she answered, rather haugh- 
tily ; — somewhat uneasy at the declaration she had drawn 
forth. 

At this moment Isola was coming up the stairs, to 
seek a book in the drawing-room for Lady Theresa; and 
hearing Ranthorpe's voice, in tones she knew too well, her 
footsteps were arrested at the threshold, and unconsciously 
she became a listener. 

" Forget myself I" replied he, bitterly. " Yes — that is 
the word — that is my reward ! I cannot help it ! — My 
heart is at your feet, trample on it, Florence — trample on 
it, and crush out every feeling — or breathe into it the 
breath of new and vigorous life ! Florence, I love you !" 

"Mr. Ranthorpe!" she exclaimed, rising with feigned 
astonishment. 

" I love you — love you !" he fiercely reiterated. 



POOR ISOLA. 103 

A low and stifled scream startled them both. It was 
followed by a heavy fall on the ground. They looked, 
and beheld the senseless form of the broken-hearted Isola. 

"OGod! OGod! O God!" exclaimed Ranthorpe, 
hiding his face between his hands, agonised at the sight 
of his wrong. 

" Miss Churchill has fainted — ring the bell," said Flo- 
rence. 

" Fainted I" he replied, in a hollow tone — " She is dead ! 
dead — and I have killed her ! — Said I not that my heart 
was at your feet? There it is, 5 ' pointing to Isola, "there ! 

I have sacrificed her to my mad passion — I have filled my 
soul with horror and remorse to gain a smile from you.-— 
And now, here, over her corpse — here, at my feet, this 
victim of my love — here, with her between us, do I repeat 

I I love youl' — what is your answer? — You are silent! 
You love me not ! — You have played with me ! — Behold, 
at your feet, your deed ! — O God ! O God I" 

He rushed out of the house; wandering through the 
streets, with the prostrate form of his once-loved Isola ever 
before his eyes, goading him to madness. 

He returned home weakened, and almost deadened to 
external impressions, while internally the Eumenides 
goaded him to despair. His first act was to write to 
Isola, imploring forgiveness; — telling her that the last 
chord that had bound him to a false ambition was snapped; 
— and that he had seen his error. 

His messenger returned with the information that Miss 
Churchill had left Lady Theresa, and no one knew whither 
she had gone ! 



BOOK III. 

THE UNSUCCESSFUL AUTHOR. 

0, my blessing! 
I feel a hand of mercy lift me up 
Out of a world of waters, and now sets me 
Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most 
To cheer my heart, even as it dries my limbs. 

Thomas Middleton. — No Wit like a Woman', 



THE ARISTOCRACY OF INTELLECT. 107 



CHAPTER I. 

THE ARISTOCRACY OF INTELLECT. 

When there is no difference in men's worths, 
Titles are jests. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Jung und Alte, Gross und Klein, 
Grasslickes Gelichter! 
Niemand will ein Schuster seyn, 
Jedermann ein Dichter! 

Gothe. 

For there is no power on earth which setteth up a throne in the 
spirits and souls of men, and in their cogitations, imaginations, opinions, 
and beliefs, but knowledge and learning. 

Bacon. 

Ranthorpe stumbled at the threshold of his career. 
His mistake was fatal, though common. He misconceived 
his own position in the world : he belonged by nature to 
one aristocracy, and he aspired to the other ; born a 
member of the great aristocracy of intellect, he miscon- 
ceived his rank, and yearned for recognition and fellowship 
in the great aristocracy of birth. 

Let me explain. 

Birth was in antique times the ensign of command. 
Those only who belonged to the aristocracy were free. 



108 EANTHOEPE. 

To be born under a certain condition was to be a thing \ 
not a man ; it was to be a slave, progenitor of slaves ; a 
slave, with no hope of freedom, but from the master's 
caprice or avarice. To be a man— to enjoy man's impe- 
rious will and proud prerogatives — it was necessary to be 
born free. 

Birth was then indeed glorious ; no misfortune could 
obscure it ; no rivalry could equal it ; without it, men 
were the property, the goods of another. To be a slave 
was to be branded, even in enfranchisement, with con- 
tempt : the slave might be freed, but he could not with 
his servitude shake off the stigma of his birth. He 
might, in corrupt ages, become the emperor of the world — 
but not even the imperial purple could hide the original 
stain ; and a Diocletian, a Pertinax, a Probus, or a 
Vitellius, never escaped that bitter reproach. 

Birth was all-important. A man might have senses, 
apprehensions, affections, — but he was a thing, unless 
he belonged to the privileged few. No wonder that 
the pride and exclusiveness of the few became outrageous ! 

Things have changed since then. Christianity, by its 
institutions, no less than by its doctrines, abolished the 
great distinction of races, noble and servile. Slavery, 
which to the wisest and humanest of the ancients seemed 
a necessary condition of society, became abolished. In- 
dustry, in the hands of these enfranchised slaves, became 
a power. The people was created — society was changed. 

Yet in those antique times, side by side with this most 
haughty aristocracy of birth, arose the haughty aristocracy 
of mind. Like its rival, this, too, was essentially oligar- 
chical, tyrannical, and, like it, was also scrupulous to keep 
the profane vulgar from its circle. Philosophy was con- 
fined to a few teachers and their disciples ; and to keep 



THE ARISTOCRACY OP INTELLECT. 109 

its secrets from the world, the Egyptian priests invented 
their hieroglyphics, symbolical instructions, and myste- 
rious ceremonies. 

So long as mind was the vicegerent of religion, so 
long was its power, even over birth, acknowledged ; but 
when its office changed — extended — then its power fell. 

This power it is fast regaining. Mind holds the 
supremacy once held by rank, though not so exclusively. 

Mind, so jealous when it first felt its power, that it em- 
ployed every machination to keep that power in the hands of 
the few, has now, because for the first time it truly recognises 
its own mission, become, instead of a waxen taper shining 
in a cell, a glorious sun giving the whole world light. The 
learned languages are no longer written ; the living speech 
utters the living thought; and cheap literature, in some of 
its myriad channels, conveys that thought even to the 
poorest cottage. 

Learning no longer rules supreme, but must give place 
to knowledge : the owl has become an eagle ! 

The aristocracy of birth is not the figment certain de- 
mocrats proclaim. A thorough-bred hunter is not a hack. 
The members of a jealous aristocracy preserve their social 
preponderance, not only by their fortunes, but also by the 
purity of their race. They have purer blood — more beau- 
tiful persons — greater refinement of manner. These things 
have their influence, because they are qualities, not acci- 
dents. Your true nobleman remains such, through every 
misfortune. 

" Licet superbus ambules pecunia, 
Fortuna non mutat genus." 

Strip your banker-lord of his wealth — and where is his no- 
bility? 



110 EANTHORPE. 

But the aristocracy of birth is no longer the power which 
it was formerly. The real government lies in Intelligence. 
" Le Roi regne et ne gouverne pas" To Intelligence both 
Rank and Wealth must bend the knee — and do bend it. 

61 Si on annongait M. de Montmorency et M. de 
Balzac dans un salon/' says Jules Janin " on regar derail 
M. de Balzac." Who occupies the foremost position in 
the world's eye — the lord or the admired author ? While 
the most potent Marquis of Fiddle-faddle, with all his 
untold wealth and line of ancestry, " dies and makes no 
sign " — the house, the room where the author lived, the 
chair wherein he sat, or the desk on which he wrote, are 
treasured as national relics unto which thousands of pious 
pilgrims make journeys from year to year; and libraries 
are full of " Lives," " Memoirs," correspondence, anec- 
dotes, and criticisms of this one man ; no mention being 
made of my Lord Marquis. The haughty Due de St. 
Simon could say of Voltaire, " that is the son of my 
father's notary;" yet that notary's son was the most potent 
man in all France — in all that France had produced for the 
century; and in his eighty-fourth year, on his visit to the 
capital, was received like some Julius Csesar in his tri- 
umph. Rousseau was the son of a watchmaker — D'Alem- 
bert was picked up in the streets — Burns followed the 
plough. Had these men no nobility? Were they not of 

the apio-reia ? 

Whatever future changes may produce, there are at the 
present day two potent aristocracies, both swarming with 
presumptuous parvenus, despicable and despised : par- 
venus (let it never be forgotten) of intelligence as well 
as of station : men who aspire to qualities they have no 
claim to : eunuchs of ambition ! 

Society is brimful of absurdities, which no ridicule will 



THE ARISTOCRACY OF INTELLECT. Ill 

mvither; and of this kind is the absurdity of the mem- 
bers of one aristocracy consenting to become parvenus 
in the other: authors degrading themselves into par- 
venus of station, and lords descending into parvenus of 
intelligence — this indeed is a misconception sometimes 
fatal; always ludicrous. Lords, consent to be lords; and, 
before attempting to be authors, rigidly scrutinise your 
claims and title deeds ! You are proud of your own 
blazonry, and ridicule the pretensions of the parvenu ; 
but you become equally ridiculous when aiming after the 
blazonry of mental aristocracy — the titles of books ; 
unless, indeed, you have the gift of genius to secure your 
position. 

Authors, consent to be authors; and before attempting 
to " move in the first circles," unless your position call 
you there, rigidly scrutinise what it is you want : what is 
your aim, and whether this society and its demands be 
compatible with the mission of your lives. Do not de- 
grade yourselves by abdication of a rightful throne for a 
baffled attempt at usurpation of a foreign one. 

Either there is dignity in intellectual rank, or there is 
not : if there is, no other rank is needed ; if there is not, 
no other rank can give it ; for dignity is not an accident, 
but a quality. 



112 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER II. 

PRIEZ POUR LUI. 

Pull little knowest thou that hast not tried, 
What hell it is in suing long to bide; 
To lose good days that might be better spent; 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; 
To feed on hope; to pine with fear and sorrow; 
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares ; 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs ; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to ronne, 
To speed, to give, to want, to be undonne. 

Spenser. 

Oui, mon ami, le veritable et la plus digne ressource d'un homme de 
lettres est en lui-meme et dans ses talents. 

Voltaire. 

A PRISON stared Ranthorpe in the face when he awoke 
to the stern realities of life. Duns beset his doors, and 
made him deeply feel the humiliation of his lot. He had 
abjured his pilgrim's scrip and staff, and now was stum- 
bling over the path to ruin. One bitter lesson he had 
learnt: — to trust only to himself. Bitter, but beneficial; 
for it served to bring his mind back again to the right 
disposition, and served to unveil to him the utter folly of 
his previous hopes. 



PKIEZ POUK LUI. 113 

In his rage lie first cursed the world and its falsehoods, 
— he pictured mankind in all the despicable colours of re- 
sentment; he scorned them with a scorn of rash-judging 
youth, and hated them with the hatred of one just deceived. 
All this was beneficial, for it threw him upon himself; and 
made him look only to himself, and his profession, for his 
support and glory. He learnt the feeling of majestic 
self-reliance ; — too often but a pitiable self-reference ! 

And yet, in moments of despair, this feeling of self- 
reliance seemed to him a mockery, and the world a huge 
distorted farce. Self-reliance!— w^hat could come of it? 
Was he not without friends — without money — without 
work ? Would superb self-reliance procure him the 
meanest necessaries? 

The book of life had lain open before him, and on it3 
fair pages he had scrawled the characters of folly and 
misery; were it not better at once to throw that book into 
the flames, than tear those blotted pages out? 

His situation was indeed pitiable ; and yet he could do 
nothing to better it. He mused and mused over his past 
folly, and his blighted prospects ; but he could only muse : 
his thoughts were directed to the past and future. 

The truth is, he was unfitted for work ; his previous 
habits and his present melancholy equally interposed. The 
life of an author, when he sets himself to work, must be 
placid and contemplative; he who has to live in an ideal 
world, should be tranquil as regards the real. He should 
know the real world — he should have suffered in it — 
and experienced all its phases, grave and gay, rich and 
poor; but this experience, which is to be the fountain of 
his inspiration, must not mingle with the current. The 
stream flows bright and limpid over its sandy bed ; but 
if you disturb that bed, the sand mixes with the water, 

I 



114 EANTHOEPE. 

making it thick and undrinkable. Experience is the 
bed over which must flow the lucent stream of poetry. 

The poet can no more write without having suffered 
and thought, than the bird can fly in an exhausted air- 
pump. He must learn the chords of the everlasting harp, 
before he can draw sweet music from it. But he cannot 
play while he is learning — he cannot write while he is 
suffering — he cannot sing while his heart is bleeding. 
If he attempt it, he will but utter incoherent sobs. He 
must wait until that suffering has passed into memory- 
There it will work, fortifying the soul with its examples, 
not tearing it with thorns. He must wait till suffer- 
ing has become spiritualised, by losing every portion 
of the sensuous pain, before he can transmute it into 
poetry: because in the divine world of art all is ideal, 
even tears; and in its battles no real blood flows from 
the wounded soldier, but celestial ichor from the wounded 
god. 



EXPIATION. 115 



CHAPTER IIL 

EXPIATION. 

Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, 
Leste et joyeux, je montais six etages, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans. 

Beranger. 

Les larmes troublent la vue. 

Alfred de Vignf. 

Juste ciel! tout mon sang dans mes veines se glace! 
O trouble! 6 desespoir! 6 deplorable race! 

Eacine. 

Ranthorpe renounced society. The friends whom 
he had courted, to whom he looked for patronage and 
success, were now regarded by him in their true light. 
He saw that genius, however great, has nothing in common 
with the drawing-room, unless it dwell in the mind of a 
man bred up in drawing-rooms; he began to heartily de- 
spise the people by whom he had a little while ago aspired 
to be treated as an equal; he rushed into the other ex- 
treme, and thought society synonymous with frivolity. 
Florence he cursed in the bitterness of his heart, though 
he had really no one but himself to blame; he was furious 
at her treatment of him ; filled with remorse at his treat- 
ment of Isola. He was as one awakened from a debauch, 
whose brain, no longer troubled with the fumes of wine, 
clearly apprehends the folly of his acts. 

12 



116 RANTHORPE. 

But amongst his old friends he found true friendship — 
ready sympathy. Wynton sincerely felt for him ; he had 
cause to do so. Joyce was foremost in his offers of ser- 
vices, and soon procured him several means of lucrative 
employment; he was, however, too much depressed to 
write. Harry Cavendish instantly remembered that his 
" rooms" were too large for him; and that, having a spare 
bed-room, it would be both pleasant and economical if 
Eanthorpe would lodge with him. This offer was ac- 
cepted the more joyfully because Ranthorpe felt the want 
of Harry's liveliness as a preservative against despair. 

Harry's " rooms 1 ' were not illustrious for their elegance. 
They consisted of a first floor in Hans Place, Sloane 
Street, comprising a drawing-room, and two bed rooms; 
but, although Hans Place is dull and murky enough, 
No. 7 was a lively house — the cage might be dark, the 
birds within sang merrily. 

The furniture of the drawing-room was not exactly in 
accordance with Ranthorpe's newly-awakened luxurious 
taste, but his position prevented him from fastidiousness. 
One stout mahogany table covered with a very dingy- 
green cloth, variegated with figures of gentlemen in hunt- 
ing costumes, dogs, and birds as large as the men; four 
dusky-looking chairs, from the seats of which the horse- 
hair bulged in various places; one discrepant sofa, a well- 
used drugget, a ricketty cheffonier upon which were ranged 
a few medical books, two meerschaum pipes, an instru- 
ment case, and a pair of boxing gloves; one green flower 
stand, with the paint much peeled off, containing one 
solitary myrtle pot : such were the articles of use. 

Elegance, however, was not unattempted, as Mrs. Cap- 
tain Wilson, their landlady, piqued herself upon her 
"taste," and, although "misfortunes" (not specified) had 



EXPIATION. 117 

reduced her in circumstances, yet nothing she declared 
could "make her forget she was a lady!" Now Mrs. 
Wilson thought that ie a few elegant little knicknaeks," 
always made a room look well, and " so much depended 
on appearances I" Such was her theory ; her realisation 
of it may be gathered from the inventory of the knick-nacks 
gracing the drawing-room. Three large shells placed on 
the ledge of the cheffonier, were balanced by the charms 
of the mantelpiece; viz., in the centre one French cup 
and saucer, with a landscape and windmill painted on 
either side, from which rose to some height two peacock's 
feathers — very graceful, indeed; the cup was flanked on 
the one side by a tiny wax figure with tremulous head, 
carefully protected by a glass shade, with a rim of cut 
velvet round the base; and on the other side lay an 
alabaster poodle, with stiff curls and staring eyes; a cup, 
inverted in its saucer, stood by the poodle and wax figure ; 
two enormous shells followed; while at each extremity 
were two chimney candlesticks with glass drops (mostly 
broken), and save-alls in them to represent wax-ends. An 
ancient glass, with a diagonal crack, in a pauperised 
frame, hung over these ornaments; and over the glass 
hung a portrait of Mrs. Captain Wilson herself, in a low 
dress, with very long curls, as she might have appeared 
some twenty years before; one hand resting romantically 
on her bosom, and the other on the head of her daughter, 
a bony dabby child of six or seven, with flaxen ringlets 
and snub nose, holding in her hand a hoop of gigantic 
dimensions, while a blue scarf " carried off" her white 
muslin frock. A miniature of u the Captain," in bril- 
liant regimentals, and highly pacific countenance, graced 
the space between. 



118 RANTHOEPE. 

I forgot to mention a stuffed blackbird in a glass-case 
which had a very lively effect on a side table. 

Harry rebelled against these ornaments at first, but Mrs. 
Captain Wilson assured him that they gave such a finish 
to his room when any body called ; and, in fact, so over- 
whelmed him with her experience as a woman and a 
housekeeper of many years' standing, that he was perforce 
obliged to let her have her way. 

Here Ranthorpe found an economical home, and a 
joyous companion, whose unflagging spirits served in a 
great measure to correct his despondency. But when 
Harry was absent, the fits of melancholy would return ; 
and the unhappy poet was unable to find refuge in the 
only direction where it could possibly be found — in 
work. 

And why was he unable ? 

In the whirl and giddiness of his lionism, he had 
contracted debts with the same recklessness as he had 
done every thing else. But his sense of honour was 
now galled when these debts were to be paid, and he 
found himself without money to pay them. He had been 
corrupted — not hardened. His great anxiety was how 
to free himself from debt. He tried to write; but 
his brain was sluggish. He was too unhappy, too me- 
lancholy, to write. He had lost his ambition, he had 
lost his illusions, and more than all he had lost his 
self-respect. The excuses, which I formerly endeavoured 
to make for him, did not occur to his mind. He only saw 
the facts and their results ; saw how he had wasted his 
money, his time, and his affections ; and lost his position, 
his ambition, and his now doubly-dear Isola. 

He threw down his pen and strolled out. His way led 



EXPIATION. 119 

him into Hyde Park. A sudden pang shot through him 
as he saw Lady Wilmington's carriage driving slowly 
along. To avoid all possible rencontre, he turned into 
Kensington Gardens. There he wandered about gloomily, 
retracing the history of his acquaintance with Florence; 
and it was in this mood that he was startled and annoyed 
to find himself standing face to face with Fanny, who, 
blushing and smiling, held out her hand to him. The 
carriage had brought her there, and was waiting till she 
had concluded her walk. 

He was very agitated ; and his agitation communicated 
itself to her; though in general she was not at all shy 
with him. 

" How is it that we have not seen you?" she asked, at 
length. " Two whole months to-morrow, since you last 
caUed! Is this kind?" 

Ranthorpe looked at her wonderingly. 

" I thought you considered us as friends," she con- 
tinued, looking down. 

" I have been ill," he said, at last, anxious to make some 
answer. 

" 111? oh ... . not dangerously?" she said, eagerly. 

" I fear incurably," he said, without intending it. 

She raised her large eyes to him; they were full of 
tears. 

He felt uneasy. He could not understand her. She 
must surely know of Florence's rejection of him — and yet 
her manner seemed to show that she wished to be con- 
sidered his friend as heretofore. They walked on to- 
gether for a few yards in silence. 

" I hope you have the best advice," she said, timidly. 

" The very best — my physician is Sorrow. His drugs 
are bitter, but they either kill or cure." 



120 RANTHORPE. 

" Sorrow ? — oh ! what cause can you have for sorrow?" 

" Many; above all, the loss of my own respect — the 
sense of my own weakness — madness." 

" What weakness can a mind like yours have — oh ! how 
can you, who have the world's respect, be wanting in your 
own ? This is some momentary despondency." 

" Are you then ignorant — is my secret a secret to you?'* 

She blushed deeply, and looked down. He misinter- 
preted her blush. 

" I see you know it; well, then, is it not weakness tc* 
forget your station — to raise your eyes to one who can 
never look down upon you, so far are you beneath her in 
the social scale ? — Is that not weakness — madness ?" 

Her eyes filled with tears; but they were tears of joy. 
A suffocating sensation — dim, but intense — rendered her 
speechless. She felt he was on the eve of declaring his 
love for her. 

" Oh," he continued, without noticing her agitation, 
" what a mockery it is to talk of genius — to declaim about 
the supremacy of mind — when the strongest mind is borne 
along by the wayward gusts of passion and vanity. "We 
are the slaves of our passions ; and our intellects only serve 
to make us aware of our slavery, without being able to 
burst its bonds. Miss Wilmington, you and I have often 
talked with enthusiasm about poets, yet, if you look into 
their biographies, you will find that one and all have suf- 
fered from ill-placed affection ; they have raised their eyes 
too high above them, or too low beneath them. This has 
been my misfortune, and I rue it now. I have been too 
ambitious. I have been misled by vanity to place my 
affections where they could only meet with scorn." 

"No — no — no — no!" eagerly answered Fanny, "not 
with scorn." 



EXPIATION. 121 

et Then, with \£orse — with ridicule." 

" Ridicule !" she said, looking at him, tenderly, " you 
are not serious — you are trying rne; you — " she paused, 
and then, with a sudden effort, but in a low and scarcely 
audible tone, blushing deeply as she spoke, " You can- 
not have misunderstood me ?" 

Ranthorpe trembled; he understood her then, and his 
heart throbbed violently, as the wild thought flashed across 
his brain. She loved him ! 

In another instant he chased away the thought as the 
suggestion of his vanity. But one look at the agitated 
girl beside him, who, trembling, with downcast eyes, stood 
fluttering, like a new caught bird, awaiting his reply, con- 
vinced him that he had not misunderstood her. It was a 
moment of strange emotion. A young, rich, noble, charm- 
ing girl, avowing her love to a poor, melancholy, ruined 
man, and that man one who had so recently been rejected 
by her sister, would at all times have been perplexing ; 
but to him it was doubly so, from his anxiety as to how 
he should escape from the dilemma. He dared not deceive 
her ; he dared not undeceive her. To tell that she had 
misunderstood him, would have been excessively painful; 
to tell her that he had loved her sister, would scarcely be 
less so. 

Besides, in his heart of hearts, he was not a little gratified 
at her affection. I must do him the justice to say, that he 
never once thought of availing himself of it. He did not 
love her. Her rank and wealth were no temptations to 
him; although these things had certainly unconsciously 
added to Florence's charms. Nevertheless, Ms vanity was 
pleased — his wounded self-love was soothed at the idea of 
her affection for him. 
His silence only increased her agitation. He saw that 



122 EANTHOEPE. 

it was necessary to speak; and justly deeming that plain 
avowal of Ms situation would on the whole be the least 
painful, as it would enable him to affect a misunderstand- 
ing of her words, he thus addressed her. 

" My dear Miss Wilmington, I am sure you are a sin- 
cere friend, and I will therefore confide in you that secret 
which your sister appears to have concealed." 

She was amazed and somewhat alarmed at this com- 
mencement ; the introduction of her sister was peculiarly 
unpleasant to her. 

" You are good enough to think that my affection would 
not be treated with scorn or ridicule ; because your own 
excellent heart assures you, that were you so placed, the 
refusal would at least be kindly. But your sister is dif- 
ferent, as I, unhappily, know too well. She won my 
heart — but she won it for her amusement ; and when I 
earnestly, but humbly laid it at her feet, she scorned me ! 
You weep — you feel for me ! Thank you for those tears. 
I, too, have wept over my folly — and this has been the ma- 
lady I spoke of ; my weakness was love ; my madness was 
loving one who could not, would not love me I" 

Her tears fell fast; her pale lips moved, but no word 
issued from them. The blood left her cheeks and rushed 
to support her sinking heart. She had been dashed from 
her pinnacle of joy, and was stunned by the fall. 

" This is the reason of my ceasing visits, which to me 
were once so delightful," he added, in the hopes of giving 
her time to recover herself whilst he spoke. " Of course 
I could never meet her again. Indeed, I have given up so- 
ciety altogether ; although there are some few whom I shall 
regret — yourself among them. There has always been the 
purest sympathy between us ; and I shall always preserve 
a delightful recollection of you. But you must see how 



EXPIATION. 123 

imperative it is on me not to waste any more time in so- 
ciety where I have no rightful place. I have now to de- 
vote myself solely to art." 

They were at the gates. He conducted her to the car- 
riage, took a respectful but friendly leave of her, and saw 
the carriage drive off with peculiar satisfaction. 

When Fanny found herself alone she threw herself 
back and indulged in a paroxysm of grief. There was 
►one ray of comfort — she had not betrayed her feelings — 
Kanthorpe had misunderstood her ! This was something ; 
it was a small ray of sunshine edging the thunder-cloud; 
but the cloud was not less dark and oppressive, because its 
edge was tinged with light. 

Ranthorpe walked home pensive. 



124 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER IV. 

NEW HOPES. 

He arose fresh in the morning to his task; the silence of the night 
invited him to pursue it; and he can truly say that food and rest were 
not preferred to it. No part gave him uneasiness but the last, for then 
he grieved that the work was done. 

Bishop Hoene. 

O pouvoir merveilleux de l'imagination ! Le plaisir d'inventer ma 
fable, le soin de l'arranger, l'impression d'interet que faisait sur moi- 
meme le premier apereu des situations que je premeditais, tout cela me 
saisit et me detacha de moi-meme au point de me rendre croyable tout 
ce que Ton raconte des ravissements extatiques. 

Marmontel: Mtmoires. 

Ranthorpe had recovered his self-respect. The inter- 
view with Fanny Wilmington had this effect at least upon 
him : that it taught him, firstly — how easy it is for those 
in love to fancy their passion returned (and thus excused 
his weakness in supposing Florence loved him) ; secondly — 
it made him aware that his love for Florence had not been 
an adventurer's love — that her rank and wealth alone 
would never have dazzled him — never made his heart forget 
its allegiance to Isola. 

The reader may perhaps fancy that Ranthorpe needed 
no monitor to convince him of this; but we must under- 
stand that he "believed Florence to be nothing more than 






NEW HOPES. 125 

a worthless frivolous, coquette. Accordingly, when in the 
severity of his self-examination he found that his love had 
been rather the result of a feverish excitement, than of 
real sympathy, he accused himself of having been dazzled 
by her extrinsic advantages, because he could then see 
nothing intrinsically worth loving. 

Fanny's love thus reinstated him in his own opinion. 
He felt that if he had erred, it was from no unworthy 
motive : the inexperience of youth, his extreme suscepti- 
bility, and Florence's art, were to blame; and Isola herself, 
he thought, would pardon him if she knew all ! 

His spirits revived, and he began to write with vigour. 
Some miscellaneous contributions to the magazines had put 
a little money in his pocket, and he resolved at once to 
write a tragedy upon which he would stake his chance. 
Harry warmly applauded this resolution; and having de- 
termined himself to work a little more steadily at his pro- 
fession, declared they would be " models to the young 
generation." 

Ranthorpe then set vigorously to work. Oh ! how happy 
were thte quiet days he now passed ! How calm and full 
was his content, contrasted with the unsettled feverish ex- 
citement of his former life ! 

There was but one sorrow — but one dark, ineffaceable 
spot: that was the remembrance of Isola, and the fruit- 
lessness of his search after her. No clue whatever was 
afforded of her whereabouts. At times he shuddered as he 
suspected her of having committed suicide. But this sus- 
picion was soon dispelled, by the reflection that her suicide 
would assuredly have been known ; and moreover, that 
she was too strong-minded to yield to any weakness of the 
kind. Her absence was the only drawback to his happiness. 



126 KANTHOKPE. 

He used to rise early and strike across the fields for a long 
walk, during which he planned the scenes of his tragedy. 
The bracing air gave him such an appetite that Harry 
Cavendish, whose nightly dissipation destroyed his morn- 
ing appetite, was ceaseless in his jokes at the poetical vo- 
racity of his friend. 

Truly, the haycocks of bread-and-butter, and indefinite 
quantities of eggs, vanished with marvellous rapidity, 
while joyous conversation made digestion light. 

His mind recovered its elasticity, and his work advanced 
rapidly. Pungent and Bourne vainly endeavoured to dis- 
suade him from so wasting his time; he treated all their 
objections, founded on the ignorance of actors and ma- 
nagers, with the specific levity which characterises the 
poetic race. 

" It is useless for Bourne to talk," he said to Joyce one 
day ; "I know very well that a good play is sure to suc- 
ceed, and of course I fancy my play will be good. Bourne's 
plays have been unanimously refused, no doubt. No 
wonder; but I cannot see how what holds good of him, 
must necessarily hold good of me !" 

Bourne, however, was prodigal of his experience. He 
inveighed against Macready, because he would not play 
"Rodolpho the Accursed" a part written for him, and calling 
forth all his peculiarities, with a mad scene and a murder. 
Bourne's tirades fell flat upon the ear of his friend, who, 
having read " Rodolpho," could not but applaud the taste 
of the actor. He was not at all surprised at the treatment 
Bourne had received, nor at all disposed to think it could 
possibly apply to his play. 

" You are young and enthusiastic," said Bourne; " you 
love poetry — especially your own — you have confidence 



NEW HOPES. 127 

in its success; but let me tell you, that managers and 
actors are equally leagued against all dramatists ; the former 
have an abstract horror of fine plays ; their penchants are 
for pageants — their souls are drunk with sumptuosities 
and 'gettings up.' Actors are no better: they think of 
nothing but their i parts, 5 which they never understand — 
no, not even when drilled by the author. All they care 
for is salary and applause." 
"Surely you libel them." 

" I don't, indeed; I flatter them, on the contrary." 
In spite of this advice, Ranthorpe continued, and con- 
stantly sat up all the night ere he could lay down his pen. 
This Mrs. Captain Wilson thought very extraordinary; 
but what struck her as still more so was the declamation 
which he so loudly indulged in, " frighting the dull ear of 
the drowsy night." While writing, he was often so 
excited, that he would rise, and twining his fingers in his 
hair, would stride about the room, declaiming the verses 
as they were flowing from his brain, in that state of poetic 
exaltation, so well named by the Greeks, enthusiasm — a 
being full of the God. Now, although Mrs. Captain 
Wilson had the very profoundest respect, and some regard 
for Ranthorpe, yet she could not consent to have her 
slumbers broken by these fits of enthusiasm. She could 
not understand, she said, " why he did not sit quietly at 
his table to write, as she did when she wrote a letter, or 
made out the washing -bill ;" and at last she was forced to 
remonstrate with him on the necessity of so doing. 

He apologised, and promised reformation. To carry 
this plan into efficient execution, he went to bed early. 
The next night he sat up, however, and wrote in silence 
till twelve o'clock. He then, quite unconsciously, began 



128 RANTHORPE. 

to pace the room. To declaim to himself in an under- 
tone was, of course, the next step — and to be carried away 
by his feelings, and to raise his voice to ranting pitch, was 
a natural consequence. 

Mrs. Wilson turned uneasily in her bed, and had " no 
•opinion of authors." At length, to his great joy, and 
hers, the tragedy was finished. He read it over with 
considerable pride, and saw in it the sure foundation of 
his fortune. He then invited several of his friends to 
a reading of this play, that he might profit by their 
-suggestions. 



THE BEADING OF THE PLAY. 129 



CHAPTER V. 

THE READING OF THE PLAY. 

Le Marquis. Quoi! chevalier, est ce que tu pretends soutenir cette 
piece? 

Dorante. Oui, je pretends la soutenir. 

Le Marquis. Parbleu ! je la garantis detestable. 

Dorante. Pourquoi est elle detestable? 

Le Marquis. Elle est detestable, parcequ'elle est detestable. 

Dorante. Apres 5a il n'y a plus rien a dire; voila son proces fait. 
Mais encore instruis nous, et nous dis les defaults qui y sont. 

Le Marquis. Que sais-je, moi? je ne me suis pas seulement donne 
la peine de l'ecouter. Mais enfin je sais que je n'ai jamais rien vu de si 
mediant, Dieu me damne! 

Moliere: La Critique de VEcole des Femmes. 

Bayes. You must know that I have written a whole play just in 
the very same style; it was never acted yet. 

Johnson. How so? 

Bayes. Egad, I can hardly tell you for laughing : ha! ha! ha! It's 
so pleasant a story, ha! ha! ha! Egad, the players refused to act it, 
ha! ha! ha! 

Johnson. That was rude. 

Bayes. Rude, ay, egad, they are the rudest and uncivilest persons, 
and all that, in the world. I've written, I do verily believe, a whole 
cart-load of things, every whit as good as this, and yet I vow to Gad 
these insolent fellows have turned them all back again upon my hands. 

The Rehearsal. 

The piece was to be read to a few " literary friends," 
i. e. gentlemen who expect boxes on the first night, and 



130 HANTHOEPE. 

presentation copies ; in return for which they are ever ready 
to enlighten their circle of acquaintances with informa- 
tion as to "what— is doing now;" together with many 
interesting particulars of the opinions, habits, looks, and 
domesticities of the celebrated author; which particulars 
have their origin mostly in conjecture or exaggeration, 
but being uttered with confidence to a gossipping world, 
are received as unquestionable truths. From these un- 
sullied sources certain weekly newspapers are supplied, 
and evening parties enlivened. Thus the world becomes 
aware of the singular facts that Wordsworth likes the 
lean of mutton chops, and that Bulwer does not write his 
own novels. 

To such an audience, relieved by Pungent and Bourne, 
Ranthorpe was to read his play. Joyce and Wynton had 
seen it in manuscript. The candles were snuffed — the 
author coughed — the manuscript was bent backwards — 
and the auditors looked becomingly serious. The subject 
was announced as " Quintus Curtius." 

" Roman costume?" asked Bourne. 

"Of course." 

" Oh ! I only asked; you know, I suppose, that Roman 
costume is in very bad odour at the theatre. Several 
first-rate plays refused solely on account of the toga. I 
know it from personal experience." 

The poet replied that he was sorry to hear it ; but as 
he had no great faith in such obstacles, with " Virginius" 
before his eyes, he was not much alarmed. 

The reading commenced. 

The opening speech had scarcely been finished, when 
Pungent observed, 

" Pardon me the interruption — but you know my 
frankness — I may perhaps say fastidiousness — but don't 



THE READING OF THE PLAY. 131 

you think the epithet ' pregnant danger' rather indeli- 
cate?" 

"To the pure all things are pure/' replied Ranthorpe. 

"True," added Pungent; "to the pure — but not to 
the pit. I daresay it may pass as a metaphor, but still 
you know the public is as censorious as a prude, and as 
sharp-nosed — I only give you my opinion — " 

Authors ! if ever you desire to appreciate the extent of 
men's impertinence, ask them for their opinions. Many 
many things they dare not utter spontaneously, are 
brought out by this inconsiderate candour. 

"Why — since you ask me my real opinion," they ob- 
serve (glad to escape the hypocrisy of politeness), by way 
of preface to their malice. Oh ! it is a glorious oppor- 
tunity. Never did they relish honest candour so much 
before. 

This Ranthorpe experienced. Pungent's objection was 
but the key-note to a chorus of carpings. His friends 
did not listen — they watched for words or metaphors to 
object to. They had come there to give their opinions, 
and nothing but discovery of faults could have reflected 
on their judgment. 

So annoyed was the unfortunate author, that he several 
times offered to cease the reading, but his " friends" were 
too anxious to exhaust their triumph, to consent to any 
cessation. At the end of the fourth act these judgments 
were severally passed: 

" I think it wants action." 

" No: but situation and variety." 

" Some comic characters would enliven it." 

li It is so very ill-constructed." 

" You have no villain — tragedies never succeed with- 
out villains." 

E2 



132 EANTHORPE. 

"It is much too long." 

In spite of opposition the fifth act was clamorously 
solicited. During the perusal, the " literary friends" 
were observed to yawn, to read the titles of the books on 
the shelves, to examine the nature of their boots, and to 
be curious about their nails. 

They did not spare the fifth act ; the first four had 
hardened them in impertinence, and the taste of honest 
candour had been so inviting, that they surfeited them- 
selves at last with it. They advised him " as a friend" 
not to send it into any of the theatres. 

Bourne declared that if the piece were five times as per- 
fect, he would have no better chance of getting it produced, 
or looked at. He (Bourne) knew something of theatres, 
and Ranthorpe would one day tell him he had been right. 
For his part, he had quite given the drama over as hope- 
less; and until pageantry ceased, and the true intel- 
lectual drama, with purity of purpose and legitimacy of 
means, again arose, he (Bourne) should have nothing to 
do with it. With these, and many similar remarks, his 
friends took their leave, having taught him a lesson he 
was not likely to forget. He packed up his manuscript 
with offended pride, and reproached himself for having 
solicited their attention. 

"Had I merely shown my play to a few of my real friends, 
like Joyce and Wynton, I might have been spared this 
evening ; I might have received hints from which to profit. 
But these fellows are now rejoicing in having sat in judg- 
ment on a work they cannot comprehend. Should it 
succeed, they will exclaim on all sides, ' Yes, he read it to 
me in manuscript ; I took the liberty of suggesting some 
alterations.' Should it fail, they will declare that they 
predicted it ; that they offered some remarks, but my 



THE READING OF THE PLAY. 133 

vanity would not allow me to avail myself of them. I 
will appeal to that sole critic, the public." 

Reader, are you of a " literary turn?" — if so, let me 
hint a word of counsel. Before you submit a manuscript 
±o a friend for his opinion, be very sure he is a friend. It 
requires great confidence in a man's friendship and recti- 
tude, to place your self-love thus at his feet. The tempta- 
tion to exhibit his cleverness at your expense is irresistible. 
If not that, then there is the other temptation, of winning 
your good- will by unhesitating cajolery. Depend upon 
it he will see nothing good in your work, or every thing — 
unless he is really your friend, in which case he will not 
be deterred from very plain speaking ; he will not deceive 
you by flattery; he will point out the portions he objects 
to, with manly confidence in your appreciation of his 
motives. 

In this latter case, a friend's eye is, indeed, invaluable ; 
he alone can distinguish between intention and execution, 
and can tell whether what is clear to you, is also clear to 
the reader. But, as I said, you must have confidence 
in his judgment and his friendship before you risk his 
" friendly malice." 



134 KANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER VI. 

COSA SCABKOSA. 

O, but man, proud man ! 
Drest in a little brief authority; 
Most ignorant of what he's most assured — 
Like an angry ape 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep ! 

Measure for Measure. 

0, it is excellent 
To have a manager's strength; but it is tyrannous 
To use it like a manager. 

Ibid : variorum edition. 

About three hundred plays are every season sent in 
to each patent theatre — about three or four plays are 
produced !* 

Those who shout their approbation of a dramatist on 
the successful "first night," naturally think that it must 
be a glorious thing to sway the multitude of hearts then 
jubilant with enthusiasm; but little do they know all that 
the happy dramatist has undergone, before his play could 

* It must be remembered that this was written five years ago ; now 
there is not one patent theatre in which the legitimate drama is per- 
formed. But the cosa scabrosa, noted in this chapter, remains the same 
as ever. 



COSA SCABROSA. 135 

be produced ; little do they know his petty vexations and 
serious alarms — the hopes and fears that have haunted his 
harassed brain — the " suing long to bide," and the " inso- 
lence of office," to which he has been subject ! 

Ranthorpe thought, that having written his play, the 
great obstacle was overcome; he knew not that he had 
three hundred rivals, and an ignorant judge: he soon 
unlearned his error. 

Ah! glorious shout that betokens success! How it 
thrills the heart! — how intoxicating is this feeling of suc- 
cess ! A thousand hands stirred by a thousand hearts, 
give my creation their approval ! 

Sweet, no doubt! but it would never repay the toil, 
anxiety, and distress which every dramatist must undergo. 
Ah no ! success has no such price ; the poet must be con- 
tent to draw repayment from the delight he experienced 
in the elaboration of his work, in all the blissful thoughts 
which it inspired, and in all the activity which it pro- 
voked — only thus can he be repaid ! 

Ranthorpe had yet to learn the conditions of success. 
Having copied out his tragedy with scrupulous neatness, 
he packed it up in a neat little parcel, and enclosed a neat 
little note, informing the manager he gave him ihejlrst 
offer of his play, which seemed perfectly adapted for the 
present company; and requesting, that in case of its not 
being considered suitable, the manager would return it to 
him as early as possible. 

This precious parcel he took himself to Covent Garden 
Theatre, for fear of any accident; and it was with extreme 
nervousness that he entered at the "stage door," and 
found himself in a dark, low, dismal-looking passage, 
where two actors, and some " understrappers," were en- 
gaged in a little playful conversation. He asked if 



] 36 RANTHORPE. 

Mr. was within. One of the actors turned to the 

porter, and said: "Walker, here's a gentleman wants 
Mr. ; is he in?" 

Walker was at that moment superintending the cook- 
ing of a chop, and without raising his eyes from the grid- 
iron, replied: " No — won't be here to-day." 

"Then," replied Ranthorpe, "I'll leave this parcel for 
him." He blushed, for he felt that every one present must 
have detected him to be an author, and his parcel to contain 
a play. He hurried into the street again, and felt a load 
was off his mind. His play was presented ; the next step 
was to have it produced. He invented several forms under 
which the flattering admiration of the manager would be 
expressed, in the note which would follow his first perusal. 
Then he doubted, perhaps, whether the manager would 
not be too cunning to express all he felt, for fear of raising 
exorbitant demands from the author. Before he reached 
his home, he had already signed his agreement with the 
manager, who all this time was as innocent of any inten- 
tion of reading his play, as he had been of the two hun- 
dred and ninety-nine others ! 

A week passed, and another and another; yet no answer 
from the manager. Very strange! he must have had 
abundance of time to read the play. Another week passed ; 
still no answer. Annoyed at this silence, Ranthorpe ad- 
dressed him a long letter : equally unaswered. Exasperated 
he wrote again in a very angry style : no answer ! 

He called at the theatre : the manager was out. He 
called again: the manager was engaged. He called a 

third, fourth, fifth, and sixth time, and Mr. was 

always out, at rehearsal, or engaged. The season closed, 
and Percy had received no answer. 

Deeply mortified, he wrote a very peremptory letter 






COS A SCABEOSA. 



137 



demanding that his play should be instantly returned to 

him: and asking Mr. if he knew whom he was 

treating in that ungentlemanly manner. He received no 
answer ! 

Taking his horsewhip with the firm intention of apply- 
ing it to the back of the insolent blackguard, who had 
treated him with such utter want of respect, he arrived at 
the theatre and found it closed. The manager was on 
the continent " during the recess." 

I know not whether " they manage these things better 
in France," but I am sure that they cannot manage them 
more unfeelingly. There can be no doubt that managers 
are a harassed race ; but their own interest no less than the 
respect due to all men, requires that they should adopt 
some better mode of treating with authors. 



138 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE DRAMATIST WITH THE MANAGER. 

II est vrai qu'il les connait mal, mais il les paie bien, et c'est de quoi 
maintenant nos arts ont plus de besoin que de toute autre chose. 

Pour moi, je vous l'avoue, je me repais un peu de gloire. Les 
applaudissements me touchent; et je tiens que c'est un supplice assez 
facheux que de se produire a, des sots. II y a plaisir a, travailler pour 
des personnes qui soient capable de sentir les delicatesses d'un art, et 
par de chatouillantes approbations, vous r^galer de votre travail. 

Moliere: Bourgeois Gentilhomme. 

Y escribo por el arte inventaron 
Los que el vulgar aplauso pretendieron; 
Porque como las paga el vulgo, es justo 
Hablarle en necio, para darle gusto. 

Lope de Vega: Arte nuevo de hacer Comedias. 

Imagine Ranthorpe's surprise when, some time after- 
wards, Joyce called on Mm with the information that the 
manager of Covent Garden had desired to see him the 
next day at two o'clock. 

" I see your surprise," he added, " but it is a fact. I 
have some influence at the theatre, and interested my- 
self about your tragedy. After persisting with savage 
energy for some time, I succeeded in making him read 
it : directly he had read it, he said he would put it on the 
stage, and he wishes to consult you on some alterations." 

Ranthorpe forgot his anger in the pleasure of this news. 






THE DRAMATIST WITH THE MANAGER. 139 

He no longer thought of horsewhipping the manager who 
admired, and would produce his play. 

" I suppose," said Joyce, " you wont object to make 
such alterations he may suggest." 

" That depends upon the things suggested." 

" Of course of course. But the fact is, you know, 

that people in the theatre have advantages which authors 
want; they have great practical experience — they under- 
stand the public taste." 

" Amply do they show this — by repeated failures," 
said Ranthorpe, laughing. 

" Why, I suppose like other men they make mistakes 
sometimes." 

" The exceptions are too numerous to prove the rule." 

" Nay, you are hard. What I was going to say was, 
don't reject their opinions." 

" I won't when they agree with my own. I can't 

be more impartial." 

There was a drizzly rain falling, and a keen wind blow- 
ing, as Ranthorpe set forth, the following day, for Co vent 
Garden theatre ; but the exultation of his mind prevented 
his noticing the inclemency of the weather, and he walked 
along holding imaginary conversations with the manager, 
and stoutly resisting imaginary alterations. On arriving 
at the theatre he was shown into the " waiting-room" 
while the " call boy" took up his card. The waiting-room 
of Covent Garden is not illustrious for its elegance. It 
looks as dismal and despairing as the poor poets and un- 
engaged actors condemned to wait there. Two or three 
ricketty cane chairs — one table — and a very ancient carpet, 
constitute the permanencies; while variety is given by an 
occasional violincello case, a roll of music, a wet umbrella, 



140 RANTHORPE. 

or a paper of sandwiches, belonging to one of the gentle- 
men of the orchestra. 

Seated on those chairs, or looking from the window out 
upon the paved court-yard, may at all times be seen various 
poets and farce-writers waiting to see the manager — to 
have an answer to their letters, or to get back the unread 
play; together with actors and " artistes," wives of chorus- 
singers, attorneys' clerks, and creditors. Every one looks 
furtively at his neighbour, and wonders " who the devil 
he can be?" Silence is mostly kept; — especially by the 
authors, who are afraid of betraying their secret. 

Ranthorpe had not waited long before the " call boy" 

announced to him that Mr. was ready to see him. 

He followed him, accordingly, up a murky stone stair- 
case, on which he met several of the actors whom he re- 
cognised, and soon put his foot upon the boards, having 
been duly cautioned " to look out for traps." He had 
never been behind the scenes before ; and as he marked the 
daubed and dirty canvas which crowded the back part of 
the stage, he wondered at ever having been delighted 
with such things. As he passed down to the front, 
and saw the actors at rehearsal, his disenchantment was 
complete. He had believed that rehearsals were studies : 
that actors there made the experiments in their art, which 
were to be consummated on the stasre. He was not a 
little disgusted to see them with their hats and bonnets 
on, their " parts" in their hands, gabbling through their 
speeches, like boys and girls impatient to be out of school. 
But this disenchantment was not without good effect : it 
was the key note to his interview with the manager; and 
prepared him to listen with more patience to the technical 
suggestions which were offered. 



THE DRAMATIST WITH THE MANAGER. 141 

He was shown into the manager's room, with the in- 
formation that Mr. would be with him at once. He 

east his eye around him, had only time to notice a cheval 
glass, over which hung an embroidered dressing-gown, and 
against which leaned a stage sword; a sofa strewed with 
newspapers and play-bills; a stage edition of Shakspeare, 
Oxberry^s Acting Drama, some old plays, and a London 
Directory, huddled together on a shelf. Scarcely had he 

scrutinised these, than Mr. appeared, and shaking 

him warmly by the hand, declared he was delighted to 
see him. 

" Well, Mr. Ranthorpe," he said, as he seated himself, 
" I have read your tragedy with attention — very great 
attention — and I can truly say, that I was charmed with 
it — quite charmed. It is quite a treat to me to see such a 
play, I assure you. Fanciful dialogue — ideal dialogue — " 
and he looked at him to mark what effect this flattery 
might have. 

"Ideal dialogue," he continued, "powerful language, 
and all that sort of thing — but rather too long." 

" Too long?" 

" Rather — for the stage. But that can be easily altered ; 
and the parts quite suit our company ." 

" I shall be happy to shorten it." 

" There will be a great many trifling alterations neces- 
sary — mere trifles — but very important trifles on the stage. 
Some of your situations, for example, are impracticable." 
Here he detailed some. 

" Impracticable !" exclaimed the astonished poet, " why 
they have never been tried — they are original I" 

"Yes: perhaps so," resumed the manager, with com- 
placency, " but original situations are always dangerous. 



142 EANTHOEPE. 

Keep to what has been tried, and proved successful — it 
will prove so again: that is my maxim !" 

" But unless certain things are tried, you will never 
know whether they succeed or not." 

" They would have most probably been tried before 
now, if thought well of. Our house is too expensive to 
be a school for experiments ; we cannot afford to fail. I 
always wait till some other house has risked a novelty : if 
it fails, I rejoice at my escape; if it succeeds, I imitate it, 
and work it till the public declares * hold, enough.' " 

Ranthorpe certainly could not object to a manager's 
taking his own measures for making money, but he re- 
belled against the idea of making art subservient to 
them. 

"What you say is perfectly just/ 5 replied Mr. , 

" respecting the play as a literary production; but for the 
stage, other necessities are to be attended to. Now you 
have three Roman soldiers, who only come on in one 
scene, but that scene is important. Nevertheless it cannot 
be played, because I should have to put three under- 
strappers, at a shilling a night, into those parts, and their 
very appearance would d — n them." 

" But could you not have three good actors ?" 

" Impossible : they would not play the parts : not their 
line! Believe me, you have too many subordinate cha- 
racters." 

" Not more, I think, than the artistic construction re- 
quires." 

" For the stage, unquestionably. Allow me to assure 
you, as the result of long experience, that minor charac- 
ters are the ruin of half the plays. Badly performed, the 
audience never takes any interest in them. The laugh which 



THE DRAMATIST WITH THE MANAGER . 143 

precedes damnation always begins with them. Depend upon 
it, sir, that Understrappers are the Small-pox of the drama : 
where they fail to kill, they leave indelible scars /" 

Ranthorpe laughed. 

" I am serious," continued the manager. " What hap- 
pened to us the other day ? That booby B was cast for 

Matcliff, in ' Richard the Third.' You must know that one 
of his illustrious predecessors playing the part, instead of 
answering Richard's ' Who's there ?' by 

' Ratcliff, my lord, 'tis I. The early village cock 
Hath tAvice done salutation to the morn.' 

was so troubled by Kean's ferocious look, that he said, 

' Tis I, my lord, the early village cock f 

which brought down the house in one shout of laughter. 

Well, B was warned of this mistake, and the warning 

only served to puzzle him the more, so that when he got 
on the stage, and Richard screamed ' Who's there?' he 
blurted out — 

'My lord — there are cocks in the village? 

to the convulsion of the audience." 

i 'That only proves the necessity," said Ranthorpe, 
laughing, " of having well- trained actors to support the 
minor characters, and not the necessity of expunging 
minor characters from the drama." 

They then went over the play together, Mr, in- 
sisting on immense alterations ; the effect of which was to 
cut out all originality, and reduce it to a piece, as much as 
possible, like every other play that had ever been acted ; 
and having lopped off all that had not been represented 
before, the manager was confident of success ! 

The poet contested several points very stoutly; but he 



144 RANTHOEPE. 

was forced to succumb, because he could only get bis 
tragedy performed on condition of its being what the 
manager wanted, and not what had been written. With a 
heavy heart he took back his manuscript to use the pruning 
knife, and make " the necessary alterations," and almost 
doubted whether it would be worth his while to have a 
mutilated fragmentary play produced at all. 



REHEARSALS. 145 



CHAPTER VIII. 

REHEARSALS. 

O, there be players that I have seen play — and heard others praise — 
not to speak it profanely, that neither having the accent of Christians, 
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, or man, have so strutted and bellowed 
that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and 
not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. 

Hamlet. 

To please in town or country, the way is to cry, wring, cringe, into 
attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labour like one in 
the falling sickness: that is the way to work for applause; that is the 
way to gain it. 

Goldsmith. 

Ranthorpe spent many a sleepless night in effecting 
the alterations in his tragedy. Managers fancy that 
alteration must be an easy matter, as all would fancy 
who had never tried; but every work that is really a 
work of art, costs infinite labour in the altering. I do not 
here speak of the repugnance to distort the work for 
the sake of theatrical precedent. I mean the absolute 
intellectual labour of re-arranging materials, or pieceing 
in new portions with the old. When once a conception 
has been incarnated, and developed in all its ramifica- 
tions, so that it has expanded into a vital whole, the 

L 



146 KANTHOKPE. 

parts of which, are dependent yet constituent — then 
indeed to ei alter;" to wrench out one scene or cha- 
racter ; to give a different turn to this and that incident ; 
in order to " bring them up to situation," and from this 
mosaic to produce a whole; is not only difficult, it is 
almost impossible. 

Thankless was the toil he underwent ; but it made him 
forget his sufferings; it directed his whole thoughts to 
his play, and to the prospects for his future career opened 
by that play. His alterations completed, he again pre- 
sented himself at the theatre, and was received with the 

same warmth by Mr. , who now declared the play 

was certain of success. It was read in the green-room, 
and the actors were all in its favour. Nothing could ex- 
ceed their enthusiasm — every one was confident that " the 
town" would be in raptures. In short, as so often happens, 
a second S hakspeare was about to revive the drooping 
drama. Theatrical gossip was full of the new play, and 
the " Dramatic Intelligence" in the Sunday newspapers 
was in mysterious ecstacies of anticipated delight. 

No prospects could have been more brilliant than those 
of our hero for the success of his piece, and he smiled a 
calm reply to all Bourne's insinuations respecting its not 
coming out at all. 

" For my part, I tell you frankly,'' said Bourne, "that 
you may consider yourself a lucky dog to get your play 
read; but — " here he dropped his voice to a mellifluous 
whisper; " I think they must be insane if they bring it 
out. It will never do — Roman subjects don't do. Besides, 
your play wants situation. My Rodolplw had a tableau 
at the end of each act — and a murder — yet they said it 
wanted situation !" 

Now came on the harassment of rehearsals. He was 



KEHEAKSALS. 147 

forced to attend them all for his own sake, as he had to 
instruct some of the actors in the right pronunciation of 
the Roman names, and some few English words. There 
was one most desperate cockney who could not be in- 
duced to call "Fulvia" any thing but " Fulviar;" another 
had got irrevocable in his head, and couldn't get it out. 
Whenever Ranthorpe quietly suggested a correction, the 
invariable reply was : 

" Oh, yes ! I'll be sure to remember it." 

There was another who could not be made to deliver 
correctly this passage, to be said in agitation : 

Fulvia is my sister — true — 

But why am I — her brother — to be mixed — 

In all her headstrong plans? 

This he delivered, as, 

Fulvia is my sister — true ! 

But why am I her brother? — to be mixed 

In all her headstrong plans? — 

" I beg your pardon," observed the author, biting his 
lips; " but you have mistaken my meaning in that pas- 
sage. " But why am I? a slight pause after * I,' if you 
please, to denote the flurry of his thoughts, and then 
resume ' her brother' — then another slight pause. " 

" Oh, I know what you mean — 

Fulvia is my sister — true! 
But why? am I her brother? — 

" No, no," shouted Ranthorpe; but his anger was in- 
audible in the laughter with which this reading was re- 
ceived. 

These were not the only torments : positive blunders 
of pronunciation or of grammar can be corrected; but blun- 
ders of emphasis, and more especially of conception, are 
very difficult to correct in an actor who, as he regards the 

l2 



148 RANTHORPE. 

literature of the drama solely as " the words" deems his 
duty done when he has learnt those words. 

A queer-looking old gentleman in a scratch wig was 
generally present at these rehearsals, which he seemed to 
inspect with great interest, though he never made any 
remark. But he used to eye Ranthorpe with a rigid 
scrutiny, that made him feel very uncomfortable. He 
asked one or two of the actors who this old gentleman 
was; they only knew his name was Thornton, and that 
he was a great play-goer. This information did not sa- 
tisfy Ranthorpe, who could see no connexion between 
being a play-goer, and always watching him so strangely. 

Nevertheless, all the uneasiness and anger provoked by 
the various blunders at rehearsal, were dispelled as the 
poet walked home and saw underlined on the play-bills 
the magic words: 

In rehearsal, and will speedily be produced, a new Tra- 
gedy, in five Acts. 

There was a significant mystery in the announcement, 
and as he saw the people stop to read it, he moved away 
with a sort of uncomfortable consciousness, not unmixed 
with a notion that every body must recognise him as the 
author of that tragedy; and when any body in turning 
from the bill looked him in the face, he blushed invo- 
luntarily. 

To have a play in rehearsal ! Who is there that has 
not speculated on the glory and delight of such an event? 
Who has not pictured to himself what his feelings would 
be on such an occasion ? 

It would be a curious morsel of moral statistics to calcu- 
late the number of human minds annually inflated with 
such a desire. If we consider that every man who writes 
at all, or even dabbles in literature, has at one period of 



REHEARSALS. 149 

his life essayed a play, and then take pencil and slate, and 
calculate the enormous amount of authors, scribblers, and 
" gentlemen of a literary turn/ 5 we shall be able to work 
out a tolerably startling sum of wo aid-be dramatists. 

Every one of these men has had more or less the idea of 
having his play performed ; and although many plays are 
<; written solely for the closet " (when the stage has refused 
them), yet the idea of a rehearsal must have been unani- 
mously entertained. To the Thousand and One Knights 
of the Drama, therefore, I appeal for sympathy with Ran- 
thorpe's feelings, which can be so much more easily " ima- 
gined than described." 

It was indeed a glorious time for him — so glorious as 
almost to make him forget the want of her sympathy with 
his hopes which alone could have made his felicity com- 
plete. The public were now informed that The new 
Tragedy of 

QUINTUS CURTIUS 
will be produced on Thursday next; supported by the 
entire strength of the company. 

On Wednesday afternoon, however, the rehearsal did 
not go off so glibly as was to be desired, so the public was 
" respectfully informed that, owing to the indisposition of 
a Principal Performer, the new Tragedy of Quintus 
CuRTius is unavoidably postponed till Saturday next ; 
when it will positively be produced, on a scale of unex- 
ampled splendour !" 



150 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE TRAGEDY IS PERFORMED. 

Now sits Expectation in the air! 



Henry V. 



How like a younker, or a prodigal, 

The scarfed bark puts from her native hay, 

Hugged and embraced by the strumpet wind! 

How like a prodigal doth she return; 

With overweather'd ribs, and ragged sails, 

Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! 

Merchant op Venice. 

The Saturday night arrived. There was considerable 
agitation in the green-room, as is customary on " first 
nights," and considerable excitement on the part of Ran* 
thorpe, as is customary with authors. He flattered some, 
and counselled others. Fulvia's brother absorbed a good 
deal of his attention; and he endeavoured to make that 
gentleman clearly understand that there was no sort of 
question why he was Fulvia's brother. 

The afternoon had been rainy, and had only cleared up 
towards sunset. Every cloud had been scrutinised as an 
omen, and resented as an insult; every streak of blue per- 
ceptible in the sky was exaggerated into certain evidence 
of clearing up; till at last the weather did clear up; and 



THE TRAGEDY IS PERFORMED. 151 

Pungent told him that was a most fortunate occurrence, 
that afternoon shower. 

" Fortunate ! pray how?" 

" Why it will prevent your friends from being re- 
marked." 

" Really, my dear Pungent, I don't comprehend you." 

« Why, of course, you have a tribe of friends coming to 
support you, and whatever the weather, friends always 
bring umbrellas. Now the rain will bring a number of 
umbrellas, and thus conceal your friends in the crowd." 

"Ha! ha! well thought of, Pungent ; but I have no 
friends in the house." 

" No friends !" said the incredulous critic. 

"None: I determined to give no orders — to ask no 
friends. I want to have the unbiassed judgment of the 
public. I want the success of my first night to be as 
genuine as the others." 

" My dear Ranthorpe, your romantic notions have un- 
done you. Friends are the necessary counterbalance to 
the malevolence always awakened on a first night." 

" I have few enemies." 

" Personally, perhaps; but dramatically avast number. 
The case stands thus : not to mention personal foes, there are 
always a number of envious rascals glad to d — n, they care 
not whom; to these add all the d — d dramatists — and all 
the friends of the e other house/ anxious to prevent the 
success of a rival; and you will find yourself with a toler- 
able and formidable host of opponents." 

"But the public?" 

" Why the public is an ass, and will be lead c as tenderly 
by the nose as asses are. 3 The public is neither for you 
nor against you. If you strike its fancy, it exaggerates 
your merits ; if you happen to be above it, or below it, 



152 EANTHOEPE. 

you are lost. But I was hasty in saying the public is 
neither for nor against you. It is against you. You appeal 
to its judgment — your fate is in its hands — the temptation 
to exhibit their judgment and power is irresistible." 

" How then do plays succeed?" 

" By friends: judicious friends. Not those asses who 
applaud right and left : but friends who know the good 
parts, and shout themselves hoarse at them. You have 
exhibited a passion — the public wavers — knows not ex- 
actly whether to applaud or condemn — let some one com- 
mence the bravos, and down comes the storm. This is the 
use of friends : they give the public courage to applaud : 
they spur hesitation." 

There was some truth in this, but his friend could not 
see it; he trusted to the force of his play to carry the 
audience with him; and cared little for claqueurs or 
cabals. 

Bourne always went to hiss: and every " first night" 
he was to be seen in a side box, very enthusiastic in dis- 
approval, so that actors, 

" Dreading the deep damnation of his ' Bah!' 
Soprano, basso, tenor, and contralto, 
Wished him five fathoms under the Eialto." 

Banthorpe felt very uncomfortable as he caught the 
sharp peering glance of the queer-looking old man whom 
he used to see at rehearsals. He could not account for 
the uneasiness he felt at his appearance : the more so as 
the old man's glance, though inquisitive, was kindly. 

The overture commenced; the theatre began to fill; 
intellectual heads were sprinkled in the boxes; critics 
nodded to each other and smiled; ladies adjusted their 
shawls, and crumpled the play bills; box doors opened 
and shut with slams, and dandies looked round the theatre 






THE TRAGEDY IS PERFORMED. 153 

with their opera-glasses. The curtain rose, and the au- 
dience hustled into their seats. The first scene was between 
two women, and was accompanied by perpetual opening 
and shutting of doors, varied with exclamations as to 
" First party" — " Second row" — " One front and one se- 
cond;' " Take a bill, sir?" " That seat is taken, sir." 
" Silence!" "Hush!" Of course this scene escaped 
unheard. 

In the second scene Quintus Ourtius appeared. Mr. 

the tragedian being a great favourite, was listened to with 
attention. The lady who played the heroine was new to 
the London boards, and was consequently very timid. 
Ranthorpe was in a fever of impatience, and only consoled 
himself by the rounds of applause which greeted two or 
three bursts of poetry. 

The act ended, leaving the public in a pleasant disposi- 
tion towards the author. There had been no action ; de- 
scriptions, and one love scene, had occupied the act: 
but audiences are tolerant early in the evening, and con- 
sent to be amused with poetry alone ; and it was confessed 
on all sides that " Quintus Curtius" was full of stately and 
elaborate poetry, often rising to impassioned eloquence. 

The regular enemies, and malicious friends, contented 
themselves with remarking the want of action, and looking 
forward to the third act. 

I may as well here give a slender outline of the plot, 
that the reader may the more clearly understand its pro-* 1 
gression. In selecting the historical anecdote of Quintus 
Curtius, he had availed himself of the dramatist's privilege 
to surround that anecdote with what circumstances he 
pleased. He, therefore, made Quintus in love with a 
noble Roman maiden. This with some minor details oc- 
cupied the first act. In the second the earthquake occurred, 



154 RANTHORPE. 

and the consternation of Rome was at its height as the 
curtain fell. In the third act the oracle declared that the 
earth would only close over the body of some Roman, and 
Quintus offered himself as the sacrifice. The fourth act 
was occupied with the grief of his mistress and his mother 
at the thought of his self-immolation, and their attempts 
to dissuade him from it; he remaining immoveable in his 
design, yet bowed somewhat by his sorrow. In the fifth 
act some of the people taunted him with the delay, and 
told him that the earth still yawned. He parted from his 
love — more like one going to conquest. The leap was 
not represented, but 'described by the mother of Quintus 
looking out : the heroine listening to her narrative in ago- 
nised suspense. A shout proclaimed the leap to be taken, 
and the curtain fell. 

This is the skeleton of the play. The reader sees how 
deficient it is in substance for five acts ; a deficiency Ran- 
thorpe himself would have seen, had he not been deluded 
by his own delight in the mere poetry, and believed that 
to be an efficient substitute for action. 

We may now let the curtain rise for the second act. 
This, though written with the same vigour and beauty as 
the former one, was received with visible weariness ; people 
had got tired of speeches and descriptions, and showed 
such signs of this, that some of the enemies thought a 
hiss might be ventured upon it. 

" Silence ! silence ! turn him out," instantly resounded 
from all parts of the house, as the ill-timed hissing began. 
The public had not yet rescinded its judgment; and 
though not approving of this act, yet (when the hissing 
commenced,) it applauded vehemently, out of contradic- 
tion. Upon this applause came a magnificent descrip- 
tion of the earthquake, which made the " umbrellas" 






THE TRAGEDY IS PERFORMED. 155 

uproarious ; and when the consternation and well-grouped 
confusion of the Roman citizens, escaping from the yawn- 
ing horror, formed a " situation" for the act to end with, 
then indeed were the umbrellas excited — then did the 
sticks approve dogmatically, and hands tingle with real 
admiration, and voices were husky with bravos ! 

" Wait till the third act," replied the adverse party. 

The author's feelings during the second act it would be 
difficult to paint. It is a bitter lesson of his errors that a 
man learns when first he sees his play represented. When 
he sees the weaknesses which he had slurred over with im- 
patience, and which he would not see to be weak, now 
brought before the audience in all their nakedness. Pas- 
sages which he had qualified as those of "necessary 
repose," becoming on the stage those of unnecessary 
tediousness — the " quieter parts" becoming the sleepy 
ones. This the poet now for the first time felt ; he saw his 
error, and cursed it, because now irretrievable; and he 
noted the silence and impatience of the audience, by no 
means grateful for " the repose" he had afforded them. 

What made it worse, was, that the actors saw this also. 
They are the first to feel whether a play is going well or 
ill, and are the first to be depressed. By the end of this 
second act, they had very strong suspicions that this w new 
Shakspeare" was a nobody. 

The third act — -the act began — enemies were eager and 
expectant. It opened with " repose," and the enemies 
chuckled, making very audible references to bringing 
night-caps, and to the effect of narcotics. The public 
was also somewhat impatient. At this period Fulvia's 
brother appeared, and the author trembled. This unfor- 
tunate actor was gifted with a pair of cruelly bandy legs, 
and a broken nose ; so that the Roman costume did not 



156 RANTHORPE. 

become him, or rather lie did not become the Roman 
costume. The audience giggled; when he spoke, they 
laughed — for his helmet was fastened so tightly that he 
could scarcely move his chin, and his elocution suffered from 
its effects. Being laughed at does not increase an actor's 
confidence, and our friend had become highly nervous 
by the time he arrived at the dreaded passage, and he 
stuttered forth : 

Fulvia is my sister — true ! 

But — am I her brother? To be mixed — 

A yell of derision interrupted him, and Ranthorpe 
sank back in the box in utter despair; he felt that now 
the laughter had begun, nothing could save his play. 

It was in vain that Quintus himself appeared, the titter- 
ing continued, for Fulvia's brother remained upon the 
stage, and the very sight of him was the signal for 
laughter. Now the storm began, and ridicule and insult 
followed every speech; the piece was fast falling, when 
it was saved by the energy of Quintus, offering himself 
as saviour of his country. This was a fine situation, and 
gloriously acted: the splendour of the diction, the earnest- 
ness of the sentiments, and the force of the acting, quite 
turned the tide in its favour, and the curtain fell amidst 
prolonged shouts, which drowned the groans and hisses 
of the enemies. The pit became the scene of animated 
discussion during the entr 1 acte, and the adverse party had 
a desperate battle to fight. 

The fourth act began with animation, and soon changed 
into pathos ; but it fell off subsequently, and when the mother 
and the mistress of Quintus began their lamentations, the 
weakness of the scene was again heightened by the inerrl- 
cacy of the acting, the giggling recommenced. This gig- 
gling agitated Fulvia so much, that she lost all confidence, 



THE TRAGEDY IS PERFORMED. 157 

and with her confidence all remembrance of her part. 
Small blunders passed unobserved — greater ones were 
laughed at — but the " worst had still to come." When 
Quintus replied to her entreaties that he had sworn to 
fulfil his vow and sacrifice himself, she forgot the speech 
of passionate entreaty which was to follow, and ex- 
claimed : 

What, leave me!— oh! 

She then stopped, unable further to improvise, and too 
agitated to hear the prompter; urged by the tittering 
public to proceed, she added — 

Oh!— please, don't! 

and " inextinguishable laughter shook" the house. 

From this moment there was no cessation; the storm 
raged with all the violence of a public that has found out 
its mistake, and is anxious to atone for it. Peals of 
laughter, yells, shrieks, shrillest whistling, hooting, slangs 
popular catchwords, mocking " bravos" and " go its," 
accompanied every scene. That great Leviathan, the 
public, took a savage pleasure in tearing the author to 
pieces. Many causes might have been detected for the 
violence of the uproar. First, seeking that sensation in 
damning the play, which the play itself had refused to 
excite; secondly, there was the exaggeration of emulation 
in obloquy — there was revenge, for having paid their 
money for amusement, and not being amused; and, 
thirdly, there was the delight in an uproar, which is 
always grateful to human beasts of all ages and nations. 

The actors came on, and opened their mouths, and 
" sawed the air with their arms," but not a word was au- 
dible ; for the thunder of the gods and the yells of the 



158 EANTHORPE. 

pit drowned every noise but their own. Thus ended 
the fourth act, to the great amusement of the audience. 

Ranthorpe was nowhere to be found ! 

The curtain rose for the last time, but it was only the 
signal for the storm to recommence. In vain did the 
manager step forward and request the audience to suspend 
their judgment till the play was ended; they applauded 
him, and laughed at the actors. 

Louder and louder grew the storm with every succeed- 
ing scene, and the din became so fearful, that many left 
the house, and some of the bawlers could not hear their 
own voices. 

Amidst this uproar the curtain fell ; and then arose a 
mocking shout for "the author! the author!" After 
which the delighted damners rushed into the Albion, to 
discuss the exquisite joke over "kidneys and a pint of 
stout;" or went home to report the failure to their wives 
and families. 

The manager was sick with disgust; resolved never to 
burn his fingers again with " that d — d humbug, the 
legitimate drama," but to spend his money upon spectacles 
and ballets — a resolution he faithfully performed, till the 
Bench relieved him of his arduous duties, and Basinghall 
Street released him from his creditors. 



ASPIRATION AND INSPIRATION. 159 



CHAPTER X. 

ASPIRATION AND INSPIRATION. 

For when sad thoughts perplex the mind of raan 
There is a plummet in the heart that weighs 
And pulls us, living, to the dust we came from. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Hence doth spring the well from which doth flow 
The dead black streams of mourning, plaints and woe. 

Ferrex and Porrex. 

What mortal in the world, if without inward calling he take up a 
trade, an art, or any other mode of life, will not feel his situation mise- 
able ? But he who is born with capacities for any undertaking, finds 
in executing this the fairest portion of his being. Nothing upon earth 
without its difficulties! It is the secret impulse within; it is the love 
and the delight we feel, that help us to conquer obstacles, to clear out 
new paths, and to overleap the bounds of that narrow circle in which 
others poorly toil. 

Wilhelm Meister. (Carlyle's translation.) 

And what were the author's feelings on hurrying from 
the theatre ? He wandered, unconscious whither his 
footsteps led him, brooding on the sadness which assailed 
his heart. All his brilliant visions were shattered like 
glass — all his ambitious hopes were crushed. 



160 RANTHOEPE. 

His tragedy, upon which so much was staked, had 
failed; and although he knew that much of the disappro- 
bation had been excited by the absurdities of the actors, 
yet he could not lay the whole burden of the failure 
upon them. Had they been competent, had they known 
their parts, his play would have been received with more 
kindness, perhaps, but would not have succeeded. He had 
seen the torrent of ridicule arrested by a single speech, and 
laughter converted into enthusiastic applause by the con- 
clusion of the third act. The fault of his play was in 
its not having sustained interest. When the minds of 
the audience are uninterested, they are ready to pounce 
upon any imperfection, and convert it into amuse- 
ment. 

Ranthorpe felt that he had failed because he deserved 
to fail. His reflections were most poignant. No failure 
is so palpable, crushing, irredeemable, as the failure of a 
play. Other works are neglected; plays are energetically 
said to be d — d. Ranthorpe's self-love was therefore 
sorely lacerated. But this was not all: something far 
deeper than literary vanity was hurt. The failure seemed 
to him a revelation of the inanity of all his dreams — an 
irresistible proof that he had mistaken Aspiration for In- 
spiration. 

This mistake is common enough, and dangerous; but 
when the unhappy wight awakens to a sense of his error, 
it is fatal. So long as the delusion be continued, it will be 
a fountain of happiness to sustain the thirsting heart. A 
man will bear all privation and all neglect, if he can but 
believe himself to be simply neglected, not wasted. But 
once let him perceive that his life has been wasted on a 
chimera — that his energies have been squandered to make 



ASPIRATION AND INSPIRATION. 161 

him ridiculous — that the light he has followed is no real 
star glimmering in the heavens, but only a will-o'-wisp 
dancing over murky fens and bogs — once let him perceive 
this, and the bloom and beauty of life is shrivelled up for 
ever. 

Yet there have been few men of genius, I fancy, who 
have not had their moments of despondency. Exalted by 
the contemplation of Beauty, and the harmonious witch- 
eries of Proportion, they have looked upon their own efforts 
with disgust; aspiring after perfection they have doubted 
their capacity to attain it, and questioned themselves nar- 
rowly as to whether they have not mistaken the aspira- 
tion, common to so many, for the inspiration given to so 
few. The very superiority of mind which enables them 
to conceive perfection, only the more readily detects the 
distance which separates their works from it. 

In these moments of despondency, when with bitter 
irony a man interrogates himself and says — Am I what I 
thought myself? and receives only dark, vague answers — 
then, should failure come as confirmation, the thought of 
suicide arises, and is eagerly clutched at by despair. To 
such despondency a few noble spirits have succumbed: 
spirits who had endured the goading*evils of poverty, envy, 
and neglect — endured them to a frightful extent, but 
never suffered them to quell their giant energies. 

They wrong us who believe we quail before the ordi- 
nary ills of life ! We have more than a common cou- 
rage to endure ; the history of our heroic predecessors 
amply shows it. Our lives are chequered ; but because 
our path is on the stony highway, where thorns and flints 
pierce our bleeding feet, have we turned aside ? Have 
we ceased the combat when wounded ? No ; if the path 

M 



162 RANTHORPE. 

be ston j, are there not flowers growing on the hedge ? If 
the path be dark before us, have we not an inner lamp to 
guide us safely onwards? Ay ; a lamp whose smallest 
glimmer irradiates the world with beauty ! By its light 
we walk, and walk cheerily; by its rays we are warmed 
and gladdened in the depth of winter nights, when 
perhaps the last dying embers flicker on our desolate 
hearths. We may be poor, but we are never abject ; we 
may be neglected, but we are not unhappy until we neg- 
lect ourselves ! It is only when this inner lamp is 
quenched, or when we look on it as some false will-o'-wisp, 
that all the glory of our mission fades away ; and then 
what wonder if we arrest our steps and die blaspheming ? 
Answer, Chatterton ! Gilbert ! Haydon ! 

To have passed a life of cherished hopes and visionary 
efforts, and to find at last that they were based on air ! 
To have forsaken all this bounteous world affords, to feed 
the hungriest vanity, or greediest sense, and to find that 
you have been a dupe, a miserable dupe ! To hear the 
ceaseless roll of waters as they break upon the shore, and 
know how great the busy joyous world they speak of; yet 
to feel like some poor stranded bark that had tempted the 
rough waves in youthful confidence, and now lies broken 
and deserted on them ! To feel that everywhere around 
you, men are happy, busy, and you alone without an aim — 
you alone purposeless, hopeless, joyless — you alone wasted! 
And in this despondency to recall the delicious reveries 
and bounding hopes which once were yours: to recal the 
lonely walks, on summer eves, along sequestered streams, 
where your busy fancy struck out many a gilded pageant 
of the future ; to recall your midnight studies, when with 
burning head and aching eyes you peered into the secrets 



ASPIRATION AND INSPIRATION. 163 

of the great Departed; and then to look upon your present 
state, aimless and joyless ! To awaken from the dream of 
life to find that inner lamp was false, a mockery of your 
hopes ! This is misery — this is despair mighty enough to 
quell the stoutest heart ! 

And this despair seized Percy Ranthorpe, and he re- 
solved to die ! 






m2 



164 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER XI. 

DESPAIR. 

A me non ride 
L' aprico margo, e dall' eterea porta 
H mattutino albor; me non il canto 
De' colorati augelli, e non de' faggi 
H murmure saluta: e dove all' ombra 
Dell' inchinati salici dispiega 
Candido rivo il puro seno, al mio 
Lubrico pie le flessuose linfe 
Disdegnando sottragge, 
E preme in ruga 1' odorate spiagge. 

Giacomo Leopardi: Canti. 

The streets were noisy ; life, in its myriad aspects, ap- 
peared to the wretched poet, insolent and hideous. 
He strode along the streets with bitterness at heart, and 
defiance in his look. Several chemists shops had he 
passed, because in each he saw some customer, and he felt 
ashamed to ask for poison in the presence of another. 

Having in his wanderings reached Wellington Street, 
he at once bethought him of the Thames. He passed on 
to Waterloo Bridge, and sat himself down in one of the 
recesses, to wait until midnight had cleared the bridge of 
all passengers. 

The night was dark and cheerless. The rain began to 



DESPAIR. 165 

pour down with steady vehemence. The passengers be- 
came rarer and rarer. The hour drew near. 

The time flew rapidly for him, although he was waiting. 
Plunged in thought — and that of the bitterest kind — he 
conjured up before him the phantoms of departed hopes, 
contrasting them with the realities which subdued him . 
His lot seemed hopeless. Isola lost. His literary career 
was blighted. He had failed; and justly. He felt that 
he had not genius enough to cope with the world, and 
had not strength enough to endure failure. 

The clock struck one, before he was aware of its being 
already midnight. This recalled him to himself. Look- 
ing carefully around him, and seeing no one on the bridge, 
he climbed upon the parapet. In another instant he would 
have quitted this intolerable world ; and the thought was 
bitterly sweet to him ! 

Before he could take the fatal leap he was pulled vio- 
lently to the ground, and on springing to his feet again, 
found himself face to face with the queer looking old man 
whom he had seen so often at the theatre. 

" Young man," said he, brusquely, " before you quit 
this world so ignominiously, answer me: have you done 
any thing which could make your life more ignominious 
still?" 

" What right have you to question me?" answered 
Eanthorpe, angrily and haughtily. 

" Never mind the right, say it is might. I choose to 
doit." 

" Leave me, sir, I insist upon it." 

" Not I. You shall listen to me." 

" Are you insane that you would trifle thus with a 
desperate man?" 

" Bah ! You know that if I choose to alarm the police 



166 RANTHORPE. 

you will be taken before the magistrate for your present 
attempt. You see I wish you well; so be quiet. Now 
answer me : have you dishonoured your name ? have you 
done that which should make you shun the society of 
honest men? If so, quit this honest world at once. I 
will not bid you stay ! Bah I" 

Ranthorpe's anger was roused, and yet he felt strangely 
subdued by the old gentleman's sharp, short, brusque, 
honest manner. There was something at once command- 
ing and amiable about him, which made Ranthorpe listen 
to him. 

u Come, answer me." 

" Well, then, no: I have done nothing dishonourable." 

" Then what makes you quit an honourable world?" 

Ranthorpe was silent. 

" Well, what answer?" imperiously demanded the little 
man. 

"I am weary of life," replied Ranthorpe, forced to 
speak. 

" At your age? Bah ! Your play has failed, and you 
fear the ridicule attached to failure?" 

Ranthorpe assented. 

" And don't you see that you make yourself ten times 
more ridiculous by taking failure to heart? If to fail is 
weak — what is it to commit suicide on that account? 
Pitiable ! Contemptible ! Bah !" 

And in spite of Ranthorpe's mingled anger and shame, 
the old gentleman put his arm within his, and hurried 
him away, talking all the time in an energetic abrupt 
manner. 

" Don't let me hear of such trash ! Failure, what is it? 
A proof of incapacity? No; not a bit ! only a proof that 
the audience and you are in different regions, and don't 



DESPAIR. 167 

understand each, other. Yours may be the region of 
darkness, certainly; but it may also be the region of such 
brilliant light that the boobies can no more see in it, than 
they can in. darkness: too much light is intolerable to 
owls. Who knows whether your failure be not more 
glorious than success? Bah! Did not the whole of the 
Philharmonic orchestra burst out into laughter the first 
time they played Beethoven? Was Beethoven then a 
paper- blotter, or a genius? What did their laughter 
prove ? — Their ignorance ! Bah !" And with this short, 
sharp, " bah!" the little man seemed to settle the whole 
question. 

" But, alas! I have not that consolation," said Kan- 
thorpe. " I feel that my tragedy deserved to fail." 

" Pooh ! you don't feel any thing of the kind ! No 
author ever did. The more the people damn, the more 
the author prizes his work. So do you; bah!" 

" I assure you I speak truly. Performance destroyed 
my illusions ; made me distinctly see the feebleness of my 
play. This tells me that I have mistaken my calling. I 
have a poet's ambition, but not the poet's genius." 

" Wrong! If you really see the faults of your play, 
that proves that you are superior to it. Understand ! su- 
perior to your failure — ergo, capable of success ! I had a 
play d — d once myself; didn't like it — but didn't des- 
pair, bah ! Try again; and don't be a coward !" 

11 A coward !" 

u Coward ! I won't eat my words. A man who cannot 
endure failure, is an ass; the man who cannot face adver- 
sity, is a coward. You are neither; you are only led 
away by a moment's ill-temper. That's paltry, pitiable !" 

Ranthorpe felt he was at a disadvantage, and to excuse 
himself in t the opinion of his strange antagonist, he in- 



168 RANTHORPE. 

formed him that tlie failure of his play was only the last 
drop that had filled the measure of his cup; and that 
life had now no charm, no hope for him. 

His voice was so sad as he said this, that the little 
old man stopped suddenly to look at him; and then said: 

" That's different. Open your heart to me. Tell me 
your story. I'm but a poor comforter; but there is always 
comfort in talking of one's sorrow. It makes the heart 
wander from its deeper woe ; as somebody says. Here 
we are at my house. Accept my hospitality, will you? 
That's right." 

Marvelling at the power acquired over him by this 
strange being, and at the curious denouement which 
seemed to present itself, Ranthorpe ascended the stairs 
with his new friend, and entered a handsomely fur- 
nished but somewhat bachelor-looking room, adorned with 
engravings, busts, casts, and books which indicated a cer- 
tain culture in the possessor. 

" Bring tumblers and hot water," said the little man to 
the servant ; and when she had left the room he turned to 
Ranthorpe, and said, " you smoke?" 

Ranthorpe nodded; but was perfectly amazed at the 
calm, matter-of-fact manner in which the question was 
put. He began to have suspicions of the little man's 
sanity. But he saw him proceed about every thing in 
the most orderly style. The spirit decanters, lemons, 
sugar, and all necessary materials for making punch, were 
soon on the table. A box of excellent cigars was pro- 
duced. In a little while a bowl of punch, brute, was 
flaming on the table; and the little man ladling it out 
calmly, bade Ranthorpe taste it. 

' ' It's from a famous receipt I got in Germany. Nothing 
like it elsewhere. Bah !" 



, DESPAIR. 169 

Ranthorpe tasted it; pronounced it delicious; lit a 
cigar; ensconced himself in an easy chair, and was sur- 
prised to find himself in a most unromantic and unde- 
spairing mood of mind ! He had been gradually dragged 
down to earth, by the sharp good sense and imper- 
turbable calmness of his new friend. And the soothing 
influence of tobacco, quickly completed what the old man 
had begun. 

Yes, there was no disguising it from himself, — lie was 
saved. The idea of suicide was supremely ridiculous in a 
man thus enjoying the common enjoyments of the world. 
And as he gazed at his queer looking friend, upon whose 
face the purple flames of the burning punch threw a fan- 
tastic light, and saw the calm content with which he was 
inhaling the fragrance of the soothing weed, he felt that, 
for the present at least, he must relinquish all idea of 
suicide. To rush from the scene of your ruined hopes, 
and in desperation die, is a foolish, but at least intelligible 
act. But after failure, to sit quietly down in an easy chair 
with a bowl of punch between you and your companion, 
and a cigar in your mouth, and to rise from this to com- 
mit suicide, would be too supremely laughable and con- 
temptible. He felt this ; for the ridiculous side of things 
rarely escapes imaginative people ; and no man intention- 
ally would mar the solemnity of his suicide. 

And well aware was the little old man of the inevitable 
effect of his maneeuvres; for a more sagacious head was 
never united to a kinder heart, than in the person of 
\ I Richard Thornton. As I said, he was a queer-looking 
little old fellow; and queer were his ways. A scratch- 
wig, which had never exhibited any lofty pretensions to 
verisimilitude or coquetry, sat carelessly upon a large 



170 RANTHOKPE. 

head, the face being somewhat wizen and wrinkled. His 
eyes were brilliant, and shaded by thick shaggy brows; 
his nose would have been handsome, had it not been so 
pinched in at the nostrils ; his mouth was small, the upper 
lip short and curved, betokening a turn for irony. His 
complexion was somewhat snuff-coloured; his coat was of 
a dark snuff-colour ; his waistcoat ditto ; and altogether 
his appearance was quaint, yet prepossessing. His manner 
was a strange mixture of fidgettiness, imperiousness, and 
tenderness. He was evidently an old bachelor — had 
been a spoiled child — and had an overflowing source of 
benevolence in his heart. 

The sympathy he had from the first felt with Ran- 
thorpe, when he saw his play rehearsing, had been in- 
creased by finding that he was the author of ei The 
Dreams of Youth," which were favourites with the old 
gentleman ; and his own experience of failure made him 
at once the friend of every unsuccessful dramatist. This 
will explain the scrutiny with which Ranthorpe had 
been so displeased during rehearsals. He was trying 
to guess what strength the poet showed capable of sup- 
porting failure, if he should fail ; and the result of his 
scrutiny was so unfavourable, that he watched Ranthorpe 
from the theatre, and followed him, shrewdly suspecting 
his intention. 

They discussed the punch and the cigars, and talked of 
Germany, as if they were old friends. Mr. Thornton had 
lived at Weimar, and had known Gothe, of whom he 
loved to speak. 

" Ah ! he was a man; emphatically a man. He looked 
like a god, and the people always spoke of him as the Ger- 
man Jupiter; not simply because of his majestic presence, 



DESPAIE. 171 

but because of the calm mastery over all the storms of 
life which was written on his brow. Napoleon, when 
he saw him, said with reverence ' C'est un homme! " 

" He seems to have been cold and calculating," said 
Ranthorpe. 

" Seems to you; perhaps so I Gothe was no whining poet. 
He knew what sorrow was — knew what dark thoughts 
assail the despairing soul — but he was not one of your 
weak set, who whine, and whine, and despair, and die. 
Gothe wrote ' Werther,' but he did not act it ! He 
struggled with his grief — threw it off from him — con- 
quered it — trampled on it like a strong man. No thoughts 
of Waterloo Bridge could gain mastery over him. 
Bah!" 

This was galling to Ranthorpe ; and was dangerous 
policy of the old man's. But he knew that nothing sud- 
den could be done, and determined to root out the idea 
of suicide. 

" Gothe, my young friend, was the last man in the 
world to deserve the epithet cold. What makes boobies 
call him so, is the magnificent supremacy which his 
reason always exercised over his passions; because he was 
not as weak as the weakest of poets and women would 
have wished him to be, he is said to have been cold. 
Bah ! He was a loving friend — a generous enemy — an in- 
imitable poet — only not a Werther. Take him as a 
model ; see how he lived and worked. From a wild youth 
growing into a great man, and till his eighty-third year 
preserving an unexampled intellect amidst almost unex- 
ampled activity. That is the man you authors should vene- 
rate and imitate ! He understood the divine significance 
of man's destiny — which is work. Man the worker is 



172 RANTHORPE. 

the only man fit to live. "Work is the great element in 
which man breathes freely, healthily. Work is ines- 
timable delight — that which distinguishes us from the 
brute is our capacity for mental activity — and in this 
activity we find our greatest and purest pleasures." 

This was striking a responsive chord in the poet's 
heart. He saw the effect, and followed it up. Having 
gradually excited the poet's enthusiasm to the requisite 
pitch, he then abruptly asked him : 

st And now what do you think of suicide ?" 

" That it is ignoble — contemptible !" exclaimed Ran- 
thorpe. 

The little old man jumped up from his seat, hurled his 
humble scratch-wig up at the ceiling, capered about the 
room in an extraordinary manner, and then seizing Ran- 
thorpe's hand in both his, pressed them tenderly, and said : 

"Young man, young man, you have won my heart; 
you have done a good action ; you have — '* 

Here he was obliged to cough to conceal his emotion, 
and uttering his favourite " Bah !" picked up his wig, and 
reseated himself. 

He really felt that Ranthorpe had conferred an im- 
mense favour on him by consenting to live. If this 
should appear strange to any reader, he knows little of 
the benevolent heart. Mr. Thornton, whose fortune had 
been literally given away in charity, was too great an 
epicure in goodness not to feel keen delight in having 
been the instrument of Ranthorpe's preservation ; and 
when he had finally succeeded, he felt grateful for the 
delight received. He was, indeed, one of those rare but 
inestimable specimens of humanity who seem to have 
taken as their motto the lines of La Mothe : 



DESPAIK. 173 

" Pour nous, sans interet obligeons les humains; 
Que ThoDneur de servir soit le prix du service; 
La vertu sur ce point fait un tour d'avarice, 
Elle se paye par ses mains." 

A race not yet extinct, whatever may be said by the 
commonplace declaimers respecting the egotism of our 
age; a race which may boast of a living represen- 
tative, in the wise, the happy, the benevolent Dr. Neil 
Arnott. 



BOOK IV. 

STRUGGLES WITH CIRCUMSTANCE. 

I will stand no more 

On others' legs, nor build one joy without me. 

If ever I be worth a house again 

I'll build all inward. 

G. Chapman : Ccesar and Pompey. 



ISOLA IN HER RETREAT. 177 



CHAPTER I. 

ISOLA IN HER RETREAT. 

The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than the pleasure of plea- 
sure itself. 

Shelley. 

Sorrow, they say, to one with true touch'd ear, 
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere, 
A lurking contrast, which, though harsh it be, 
Distils the next note more deliciously. 

Leigh Hunt. 

But all this time I have been neglecting Isola: not 
because I had forgotten her, but because sometimes, in 
the confidence of love, one treats friends with less atten- 
tion than acquaintances ; and so I consented to keep my 
heroine in the background till I could have a clear space 
for her to fill. This now is found. 

Nightingale Lane used to be one of the prettiest lanes 
about London.* It turned from the Kensington high- 
road, and ran up to Holland House, after which it branched 
into two paths, one leading to the Uxbridge Road, the 

•* Used to be, but is so no longer. It has recently become as prosaic 
a lane as London's environs can produce; at least until it reaches Hol- 
land House. 

N 



178 KANTHORPE. 

other leading to Camden Hill. In this sweet lane, so 
poetically named from the number of nightingales, 

" Singing of summer in full-throated ease," 

the delightful spirit might really — to use the popular 
phrase — "fancy itself miles in the country:" it was, in 
truth— 

" A most melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless — " 

where foliage of every tint and shape, through which the 
sun streaked splendour — where 

" Verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways, 

enticed the sauntering footsteps to those 

" Murmurous haunts of flies on summer's eves." 

As you turned up from the noisy, dusty road, into this 
cool and leaf-strewed path, your eyes and ears were con- 
stantly delighted ; you caught occasional glimpses through 
the trees of Holland House, with its quaint architecture, 
looking a living record of the past, and strong with all 
the associations of a line of wits; your eye rested upon the 
lawn stretching its rich verdure before the house, giving 
pasture to 

" A few cattle, looking up aslant, 
With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant." 

The birds were in the trees, making them " tremble 
with music," and the " heavy-gaited toad" hopped across 
the path. 

I know not why it is that lovely scenes — or even a bit 
of sunshine on a spot of green — or the gush of a rivulet 
through a deserted lane, always curiously affect me. 
These things " overcome me like a summer cloud" — stir- 



ISOLA IN HER RETREAT. 179 

ring the depths of my soul ; and yet so vague and sha- 
dowy the impressions, that they seem more like the broken 
memories of many dreams uniting into one, than any dis- 
tinct reminiscence. Are others so affected? I know not. 
To me it seems as if all the happiest, idlest moments of 
my boyhood were dimly recalled; intense, although too 
dim for the mind to give them form. The murmuring of 
water recals fragments of many scenes where that murmur 
had before been heard; recalling, also, all the youth and 
buoyancy, the unused sensibility, the trusting affection 
and unfastidious taste, ready to be pleased, and pleased 
with all it saw; recalling the delicious loneliness of youth, 
when solitude was sought to people it with forms of the 
imagination — when the unspeakable emotions of a heart 
too full, could only be relieved by solitary brooding — when 
the melancholy of a mind, without a purpose, served to 
identify itself with the ongoings of external nature. 

These, and a thousand different associations, are ever 
recalled to me by the mere aspect of external beauty. On 
those occasions, as "Wordsworth sings of the daisy, 

" Oft on the dappled turf at ease, 
I sit and play with similes, 
Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising. 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 
While I am gazing." 

Some such process of association was going on in the 
mind of Isola Churchill, as she slowly sauntered up 
Nightingale Lane, with a placid smile on her pale and 
delicate face, weaving " fancies rich and rare," or watch- 
ing the green frog springing into the lush weeds that grew 

n2 



180 RANTHORPE. 

on the hedge side ; or allowing her thoughts to lead her 
to the happy past. 

She thought of her childhood and her early love ; with 
this love her memory wantoned, and would not quit its 
sweet familiar details ; till, at last, her thoughts were irre- 
sistibly driven to the subject of her first and lasting 
misery — her outraged affection. Ah! what a change! 
from thoughts of bliss suddenly recalled to that state 
Coleridge so finely describes as 

" Grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief, 
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
In word, or sigh, or tear." 

This sudden recollection of a constant grief, from whose 
oppression she had escaped for a little breathing time, made 
Isola turn into her house with a shiver; and without taking 
off her bonnet and shawl, she threw herself into a chair, to 
probe the depths of her own wretchedness, and thus find 
out its limits, or else to wring a pleasure from her pain. 

The "luxury of grief" is a curious paradox; but it is 
an incontestable fact. The morbid dwelling on some 
hateful matter is a diseased delight; but it is a delight. 
In certain natures the craving for sensation is so intense, 
that if pleasurable sensations are unattainable, painful 
ones are sought, for the sake of the sensation. In moral 
pain, there is a feeling of existence, which, on some frames, 
acts pleasurably. This is a fact, explain it as we may. 

I have no doubt that sulky people, from the constant 
brooding over the offence they sulk at, extract a real 
pleasure, greater than any reconciliation could afford. 
They hug themselves in their martyrdom — they make 
themselves miserable, and delight in the sensation. They 
stimulate their minds to activity by the constant pricking 
of a sore place. 



ISOLA IN HER RETREAT. 181 

When we have real cause for grief, we are too apt to 
accept of the excuse it affords for the indulgence of this 
morbid feeling; and hence the profound advice of Jean 
Paul, that the first thing to be conquered in grief, is the 
pleasure we feel in indulging in it. 

This curious fact explains how many people of extreme 
sensibility have been thoroughly heartless, and how it is 
very easy to shed floods of tears over the loss, over the 
misfortune of another, without ever having really loved 
the person. 

The tendency to dwell on grief is greater in women than 
in men: firstly, because of their greater sensibility; and 
secondly, because of the monotony of their lives. In the 
hurry of business, or in attention to study, grief is quickly 
blunted and forgotten ; but, in the monotony of women's 
lives, the indulgence serves to fill the weary hours with 
a vivid sensation. 

Isola had this malady of the mind, only in a slight de- 
gree; but she had real cause for grief, and her solitude 
excused it. Forlorn and without hope, she found herself 
wronged and deserted by him on whom she had bestowed 
her heart. She toiled for her daily bread ; and knew not 
why she toiled, for life to her was cheerless. 

Yet, no : not cheerless ! She said so ; but it was not so. 
She had still her quick-pulsing youth and ardent faculties ; 
she had still her dreams and her remembrances ; when she 
read his verses her heart fluttered as of old — and life to her 
was precious ! On that day which I selected as proper for 
her re-appearance on this scene, and while probing with 
relentless hand the wounds of her affections, her eye me- 
chanically wandered round the room, and rested on the 
various water-colour drawings which adorned the walls; 
and as her eye thus rested on the work of her own in- 



182 RANTHOKPE. 

dustry, the current of her thoughts was changed, and 
flowed into that art she loved so well, and to which she 
owed her modest subsistence. 

Art is a perpetual blessing — a household god of peace- 
ful, holy influence — chastening the worldly, and exalting 
the aspiring ; as Keats sings, 

"A thing of "beauty is a joy for ever, 
Its loveliness increaseth;" 

and with its increase grows its divine influence. No one 
accustomed to sit surrounded with books and pictures can 
have failed to remark the influence they exercise upon the 
currents of thought; whichever way the eye is turned 
those objects meet it, and their inexhaustible associations 
fill the mind with beauty. 

Isola felt this influence as she gazed, and the Ithuriel 
spear of beauty healed her wound at a touch. In a few 
minutes, her heart was light, her mind active, and her face 
quiet with smiles. 

The history of her life, from that fatal day when she 
overheard Percy declare his passion to Florence Wilming- 
ton to the period at which we again meet with her, is 
briefly told. 

In her despair, she left her situation, without commu- 
nicating to any one her design or her destination. It 
pained her to be separated from Fanny; but she wished 
to separate herself from all that could recal her passion, 
and from all that could possibly lead to the discovery of 
her retreat. She took an humble lodging in Nightingale 
Lane; and, when the first torrent of her grief had passed, 
debated what course she should pursue. An orphan, she 
had no one to guide her, no one to protect her. 

After a little while, she wrote to Fanny, disclosing the 
secret of her sorrow and present condition. In an instant, 



ISOLA IN HER RETREAT. 183 

Fanny was by her side, and had to make her confidence. 
Strange tricks of fate that had made these two young 
creatures waste their hearts upon an ingrate ! I need not 
say this new confidence forged another link of sympathy 
and affection between them. 

Isola had determined to turn her wonderful power of 
drawing to account; and Fanny gladly undertook to get 
these drawings sold, and sold well, amongst her con- 
nexions. 

Thus Isola became an artist, and created for herself a 
slender but sufficient subsistence. 



184 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE ARTIST. 

Handelt einer mit Honig, er leckt zuweilen die Finger. 

Beinecke Fuchs. 

My Dionyza, shall we rest us here, 
And by relating tales of other's griefs, 
See if 'twill teach us to forget our own? 

Shakspea.be : Pericles of Tyre. 

By the pencil Isola lived ; by the pencil she contrived to 
satisfy her wants. Small indeed must those wants have 
been to be supplied from such a source ; but she was as 
prudent as she was diligent, and seldom knew the sharp 
pangs of hunger, except when she purchased them by a 
weakness for — art. 

She was a true artist, however humble her talent of exe- 
cution ; she had the genuine feeling and o'ermastering en- 
thusiasm which only artists know. Whenever she had 
succeeded in executing a painting of more than ordinary 
beauty — whenever she had thrown more of her own feel- 
ings than usual, into any work — she could not prevail 
upon herself to part with it ; and although the need for 
the money she might receive for it, was often very great, 
yet she could not let her prudence overcome her enthusiasm, 
she could not consent to sell her poetry, to part with her 



THE ARTIST. 185 

creations as merchandise : so she kept it, and lived upon a 
crust till another was finished. 

Many will sneer at this as folly, some will sympathise 
with it as rarest wisdom. When the time of want had 
passed away, the " thing of beauty" remained to her, and 
was a " joy for ever." It graced her walls, and gladdened 
her thoughts. There are thousands who pinch themselves 
for the sake of a little extra ostentation, and may not one 
poor enthusiast do the same for beauty, without a sneer ? 

Think of this lovely creature, with no companions but 
her books and pictures, and ask yourself: was she not 
wise thus to store up enjoyment for herself? Think of 
this enthusiastic girl dwelling for hours delighted over her 
own creations — expressing the unspeakable tenderness of 
her soul in the handling of a flower, or in the branches of 
a tree rustled by the wind ; think of her using her art, 
not for the poor recompense of money, or adulation, but as 
the process whereby she symbolised her innermost feel- 
ing — feelings she would shrink from expressing otherwise 
— thoughts which she dared not utter, but which in the 
unreserved confidence of art she could form into symbols ; 
think of her fondly watching this creative process and 
loving her realised self: and then think of the pangs 
it caused her to part with these symbols when perfected; 
never to see them more, knowing that they were to go 
before eyes that could not read them, minds that could 
not comprehend them ! With the painter it is otherwise 
than with the poet : the latter does not sell away his work, 
but only the right of printing and publishing his work; 
he has it always with him ; the painter parts for ever 
from his work. To those who look on art as a clever 
manipulation — as alas ! too many are inclined to look on it 
— this conduct will seem ridiculous, and this symbolising 



186 EANTHORPE. 

of her feelings a mere phantasy : it is so to them. Only so 
much as the mind knows can the eye see; only so much 
as the mind perceives in any object, can it attempt to 
represent. Some painters talk fatiguingly of the " imi- 
tation of nature;" whereas art is not a daguerreotype, but 
the reproduction of what the mind sees in nature. It is 
in proportion to the faculty of poetic vision, that a Claude 
transcends a mere tableau de genre. As an imitation of 
nature in the literal sense, all landscapes are bungles ; in 
the poetical sense there is no question about imitation, but 
about reproduction. I once saw a sketch by Salvator 
Rosa of a mere ravine, with one stunted tree bursting 
from a mound, and twirling its branches round a piece of 
rock, that has haunted me ever since, while of five thou- 
sand so-called " landscapes" no glimmering remains. 

There is a sentiment in every picture, however rude, 
that comes from the hand of a true artist. A cottage, with 
the smoke curling from its small chimney, losing itself in 
a clear atmosphere, may be either very poetical or very com- 
monplace, according to the mind of the painter. All the 
correctness of tone, colouring, and perspective in the 
world, are nothing, unless the poet's magic give the whole 
that grace, impossible to be defined, but by all distinctly 
felt. The difference between an imitation of nature, and an 
artistic conception of nature, may be stated by two exam- 
ples: Denner and Raphael. Denner copied every hair 
and freckle ; looking at the human face with a microscope, he 
anticipated the effects of the daguerreotype : his works are 
glorious specimens of industry, while those of Raphael are 
the most glorious specimens of art, and are truly " joys 
for ever." 

So when I say that Isola in her humble way created — 
that she, too, was a poet — it is intelligible how she should 



THE AKTIST. 187 

love her pictures which were symbols of her feelings. Art 
was her passion : it was 

" That blessed mood 

In which the burthen of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world 

Is enlightened." 

This passion served at least to soften the pangs of wounded 
affection and to reconcile her to life. Time, the consoler, 
poured his balm upon her wounds, and she became at last 
almost happy; only recurring with bitterness to the past, 
upon peculiar occasions, when she would brood over her 
sorrow, till called insensibly away again by her pictures. 

She had renounced the world, and the world's pleasures, 
for the solitary, happy, active life of an artist. And she was 
happy with her books, her pictures, and her dog. I have 
as yet had no time to say a word about the faithful Leo, 
a superb Newfoundland dog, who as a pup had followed her 
home (she had not the heart to prevent him), and who 
had now grown into a noble companion and protector; 
but though I have till now neglected him, he occupied too 
large a place in her quiet existence for me to pass him over 
entirely. There was something about the calm grandeur 
and candid lovingness of the dog, which accorded mar- 
vellously with the bearing of his mistress ; and as she stood 
sometimes with her hand upon his upturned head, they 
formed a group which a Phidias might have envied. Leo 
.was of course the companion of her walks ; and while she 
read or painted he sat at her feet, watching her with calm 
lovingness, and occasionally thrusting his head into her 
hand to solicit a caress. He not only alleviated her sense 
of loneliness, but often prevented her sitting at home all 
day, instead of taking invigorating exercise, for she oftener 
went out on his account than on her own. 



188 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER III. 



As mine own shadow was this child to me, 
A second self far dearer, and more fair. 

* * * * 

This playmate sweet was made 

My sole associate, and his willing feet 

Wander'd with mine, where earth and ocean meet. 

* * * * 

And warm and light I felt his clasping hand 
When twined in mine. We, two, were ne'er 
Parted, but when brief sleep divided us. 

Shelxey. 

But, after all, the artist cannot live wholly for his art : 
human affections and human infirmities irresistibly chain 
him to the world from which he would flee. 

So Isola could not live without affections. However 
the peculiarity of her position might induce her to shun 
communication with all former friends, yet the very sym- 
pathy and sensibility which made her an artist, made her 
pant the more for human intercourse. 

The heart of woman is a fountain of everlasting love; 
without love it dies, with love alone it rests contented. It 
craves some object on which to pour the pent-up floods of 
its affection. The object may be fantastic, the passion may 



woman's love. 189 

be curiously distorted; but the craving must be satisfied 
in some way. Observe how in old maids this distorted 
affection, cut off from its natural channel, manifests itself 
in the extravagant attachment to some cat or parrot : this 
has its ridiculous side, but it has also a poetical one, for it 
is a symbol of that undying love women were created to 
perpetuate. 

Isola loved her art, but she panted also for something 
human; something whose wants and infirmities, appealing 
to her pity, would stir the sacred waters of her heart ; 
something to protect with lavish love. This she found in 
a neighbour's child, a chubby boy of five years old, with 
sparkling eyes, dimpled cheeks, and ringing laugh. Wo- 
men are by nature fond of all children ; and when these 
youngsters are well behaved and pretty, they are so fasci- 
nating that one may really be excused any extravagant 
dotage. 

Who can refuse the petition of a chubby boy ? Who 
can resist the stammering request? Who can be angry at 
a spirited petulance, which, though loudly qualified as 
"very naughty," is secretly admired? Who can help 
being moved with the sharp joyous laugh, the inexhausti- 
ble faculty of amusement, the absorbing curiosity and 
astonishing impudence of children ? It is impossible ; you 
can never yourself have been a child to do so ; or else you 
have been crammed with hornbooks and instructive dia- 
logues in the nursery, till you became dyspeptic and pre- 
mature. 

In the lane where Isola lived, she had often met with a 
chubby, rosy boy, of five years old, whose beauty and 
winning ways had gradually won her affections. Meeting 
him almost daily, she began to look upon him as a 
younger brother. Having nothing else to love, she soon 



190 RANTHORPE. 

loved him, and with an absorbing affection. He always 
called her " sister Isola," was always the first to greet her 
when she came out, and in a little time had established 
himself in her heart, no less than in that of Leo. 

Little Walter became Isola's joy and idol ; on his edu- 
cation and amusement she expended all her leisure hours ; 
and the little fellow touched, as are all noble boys, by 
kindness, used to obey her to the letter. She had rarely 
to scold him : to tell him he had done wrong was enough 
to send tears into his eyes ; and even if he repeated the 
offence — and what child does not? he was always more 
sorry at having disobeyed her, than at the standing in the 
corner to which she condemned him. 

Touching it was to see the affection of these two 
creatures for each other — both so young and loving; the 
one with sunshine always in his face, the other with a cast 
of pensiveness, which gave 

" Elysian beauty, melancholy grace," 

to her sweet countenance. Hers was essentially a motherly 
heart. Her own strong nature did not need that protection 
for which woman mostly looks to man; but needed, on the 
contrary, something feebler to cherish and protect. Her 
love for Ranthorpe had always been greatly mingled with 
this feeling ; she had early divined his weak, wayward, and 
somewhat womanly nature, and in their childhood and 
youth had been an elder sister to him. She foresaw dimly 
that he would need her support in his battle with the 
world ; and with all her veneration for his intellect, she 
felt somewhat towards him as a mother feels for an idolised 
child of genius. His weakness and waywardness, which 
would have shocked, perhaps disenchanted another woman, 
only made her heart yearn more towards him. 



woman's love. j 191 

Conceive then the delight she must have felt in little Wal- 
ter. She was now no longer alone in the world : and if, as 
they wandered through the lanes, his tiny hand in hers 3 or as 
she watched him romping with Leo, she sometimes sighed 
to think she had not for him a mother's claims as she 
had a mother's tenderness ; still the constant delight of being 
with him, thinking of him, purchasing toys for him, and 
telling him stories, kept her feelings in such active play, 
that she soon recovered her former elasticity of spirits. 

Walter's mother was in narrow circumstances, and had 
three other children, and she was very sensible of Isola's 
kindness to her boy — what mother is not so ? and was 
always pleased that he should be with her. Isola taught 
him to read. Great was her delight at his pride when he 
jumped about or strutted with importance " worn in its 
gloss," as he informed every body, that " he knew another 
line, and could spell it all." 

With Isola he rambled through the lanes and fields/ 
weaving fantastic garlands of wild flowers, or showering 
them upon her in his sport. With her he sat while she 
was painting, and in grave silence daubed some paper with 
paint brushes, that he might imitate his darling sister (as he 
called her) and " play at painting." Often would she look 
up from her work, and catch the little fellow mocking her 
attitude with sly gravity, while laughter peeped from 
under his eye-lids ; and then she could never resist pinching 
his chubby cheeks, and throw aside the pencil for a game 
of romps. 

\ Or on a summer's evening, after their usual stroll, — or 
when the rain kept them within doors, she would amuse 
him with those stories which captivated our infancy, but 
which the next generation stands a fair chance of not 
hearing ; unless a stop be put to the monstrous pedantic 



192 RANTHORPE. 

absurdities now in fashion with respect to education:* 
absurdities promulgated by the greatest set of dolts that 
ever obtained a bearing ; which hearing they obtained by 
dint of a rotten sophism. 

It is not enough that " Goody Two Shoes," " Jack the 
Giant Killer," or the hero of the " Bean Stalk," should 
ruthlessly be converted into moral tales — (as if children 
were to be made virtuous by maxims — and, ye gods ! such 
maxims !) — it is not enough that men should so grossly 
blunder as to suppose life a scheme that could be taught, 
instead of a drama that must be acted ; — it is not enough that 
the affections, sympaifries, and imagination are considered 
" frivolous," and reading or hearing stories " sad waste 
of time;" — these are trifles, " the worst is yet to come." 
Children must be taught "sciences and useful knowledge;" 
babies of three or four years old are to have the le steam- 
engine, familiarly explained." Infants are to be called in 
from trundling the hoop, to con over the mysteries of che- 
mical and astronomical phenomena " adapted to the meanest 
capacity." As in Hood's exquisite parody of George 
Robins' advertisement, the pump is enumerated as having 
" a handle, within reach of the smallest child" so do our 
illustrious educators wish to place the pump of know- 
ledge within reach of the meanest capacity, that in- 
fants may forego the mother's milk to drink of its Pierian 
spring. 

Is this credible? In a sane country is it credible that 
chemistry, geology, astronomy, and theology should be 

* Since this was written a change has taken place and in the right 
direction, headed by the active and tasteful Felix Summerly. Thanks 
to him, and to Mr. Cundall, the publisher of children's books, in Bond 
Street, we have now the best old stories illustrated by artists of repu- 
tation, and excellent new stories written by men of genius. 



woman's love. ;193 

" adapted to the infant mind," and the infant mind em- 
bedded in this mass of indigested nonsense ? 

Most wise doctors I Most credulous parents! Most 
unhappy children ! To you all, a blessed millennium of 
science is coming, wherein imagination and emotion will 
no more vitiate the mind ; wherein " prejudices" will be 
matters of research, and the differential calculus be ex- 
pounded to the infant in the cradle! — A time when 
" gentle maidens reading through their tears" will feel 
their hearts tremble over — conic sections ; romantic youths 
will feel their breasts inflated with the mystery and magic 
of — the composition of forces ; and happy men have all their 
sympathies enlarged by eccentric orbits ! Then will the 
air be filled with sighs of " definite proportions;" and 
the dance — theatre — and pic-nic, give place to scientific 
meetings. Then will the budding rose of womanhood 
meet her chosen one, beneath the mystic moon, and pour 
forth her feelings on the atomic theory : her lover answer- 
ing in impassioned descriptions of stalactite and strata ! 

This millennium is still, however, distant: as we thank- 
fully acknowledge. Isola had no sort of sympathy with it. 
Her instinct, rather than her reason, told her that the child 
must feel before it can know ; and that knowledge, great 
and glorious as it is, can never be the end of life : it is but 
one of the many means. ) 

She, therefore, fed his insatiate appetite with stories of 
human sympathies, sufferings, virtues, and prowess — fairy 
tales, and legends gay and sad. He listened with open 
mouth and staring eyes, occasionally filled with tears: 
precious drops ! so necessary to encourage in the egotisti- 
cal period of infancy ; which is egotistical because it knows 
no other joys and pains than those it suffers; and when 
she ended, he would exclaim, " Tell it again ! tell it again !" 

o 



] 94 EANTHORPE. 

Tell it again ! — what a contrast with the listless, restless 
mind which a few years afterwards cannot read a book nor 
hear a story told a second time; — which craves for some- 
thing " new," though the only novelty be in the title ! 

Tell it again ! — In those words the riches of childhood 
are revealed ; it is in childhood only that we do not weary 
of the twice-told tale or the twice-felt emotion. 

" Let us go and kill giants," he would say, after listen- 
ing to the exploits of that Achilles of private life, "Jack 
the Giant Killer." " Buy me a fairy, sister Isola, will 
you?" he often entreated. (i I'll be very good." 

And thus they lived and loved. They were the world 
to each other, and beyond that world they did not care 
to move. There was in her love an intensity — an anxiety 
which differed, in its unhealthiness, from a mother's love. 
Isola loved a child that was not her own, and that might 
at any time be separated from her : no wonder, then, that 
she was fretful and anxious. 



THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 195 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 

Miserable creature, 
If thou persist in this 'tis damnable. 
Dost thou imagine thou can'st slide on blood 
And not be tainted with a shameful fall? 
Or, like the black and melancholic yew-tree, 
Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves 
And yet to prosper. 

Webster : The White Devil. 

When Ranthorpe awoke, the morning after the night 
of his failure, he felt almost angry with Mr. Thorn- 
ton for his benevolent interference. He awoke to find 
himself once more robbed of his illusions. He had 
again failed ; his greatest effort to win a name had been 
received with derision. Would it ever be otherwise ? 
Had he sufficient courage to act upon Mr. Thornton's 
advice? 

He doubted his own energy. The intense excitement 
of the preceding night had now, in its reaction, unnerved 
him. He felt listless, hopeless, lifeless. Mr. Thornton 
called early. His conversation for a while revived the 
drooping spirits of his young friend; but on his taking 
leave, they sank again. Harry had made one or two 
efforts at consolation; but soon gave up the attempt as 

02 



196 EANTHOKPE. 

fruitless. He was, in truth, himself too much distressed at 
his friend's failure, to be an effectual consoler. 

In the course of the afternoon a letter was put into 
Ranthorpe's hands : a mere glance at the superscription 
made his heart and temples throb violently, and he held it 
some minutes before him, unable to open it. It was from 
Isola, and ran thus: 

" My ever beloved Peecy, — I was at the theatre 
last night ! That will tell you how much I suffered and 
still suffer. The manner in which your play was acted, 
would have ruined the finest work ; and I perfectly hated 
the actors ! Every applause made my heart beat ; every 
hiss made it sick ; and when I left the house — but I can- 
not write of it ! 

" Now, Percy, now do you most need all your strength 
— now must you wrap yourself up in the proud conscious- 
ness of your genius, and the assurance of its ultimate 
recognition, and not suffer failure to daunt your aspiring 
soul. Despise the injustice of the world; do not let it 
make you swerve one inch out of your path. Last night 
I felt despondent — unutterably despondent. To-day I feel 
that despondency is weakness, even in me; and that you 
will not, cannot, let it prey long upon you. Think of how 
often the greatest men have been misjudged, but how 
surely has the world revoked its hasty verdict. Think of 
your own works, and compare them with works which 
have succeeded, and then see how little the accident of 
one failure can affect your hopes. 

" Above all things resist despondency. Wring what 
lesson you will out of this unhappy night, but only beware 
of attributing too much importance to it. Rise up against 
it ; look it courageously in the face, and say: I have 
failed, but I will succeed. 



THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 197 

" Will to do it, and it is done. That you have genius 
you cannot doubt; but genius itself is powerless, unless 
accompanied by strength of will. Fortitude of mind is 
perhaps the greatest characteristic of every great man; 
and that you will be great I feel deeply convinced, if 
you can but summon sufficient courage to trust wholly to 
yourself. 

"This was all I intended to say; but it is in vain I 
strive to master my feelings. While pointing to the 
future, I cannot help recurring to the painful past. Be- 
sides, it would look unkind. If I made no allusion to 
the past, you might fancy it was from coldness, or pride, 
or anger. I feel nothing of the kind ; and be assured that 
whatever it may have cost me to own myself no longer 
your affianced bride, I have now learned to endure my lot 
with patient calmness. I forgive you, Percy; I have long 
forgiven you. It was no fault of yours that I was less 
loveable than another. 

" Be great, be happy ! that is the constant wish of your 
devoted sister, Isola. 

"P. S. — You will understand my motives in keeping 
my present residence a secret. Do not endeavour to de- 
tect it. I could not see you; I have not sufficient strength. 
When you are married — then perhaps ; but now I feel 
that I must avoid your presence. God bless you !" 

This letter, meant to be so calm, was scarcely legible 
from the tears she had let fall upon it; and Percy 
felt as he read it a mixed sensation of pain and rapture : 
of pain, because he felt how much she suffered; of rapture 
because he felt she loved him still. 

It awoke him from his lethargy; it gave life a value, 
and a purpose. He would not rest until he had discovered 
her, and not only obtained her pardon, but her hand. 



198 RANTHORPE. 

He, who a few minutes ago was despairing of ever gain- 
ing a livelihood by his pen, was now all eagerness to 
gain a wife. 

The post-mark was Camberwell. He instantly set off 
for Camberwell, and went to the various post-offices 
there, certain to learn from the letter-carriers Miss Church- 
ill's address. After many disappointments, he at last was 
told where a Miss Churchill lived. He went there, and 
found an old maid, who received him with some embar- 
rassment, but whose embarrassment was ease itself com- 
pared with his, when he discovered the mistake, stam- 
mered an apology, and rushed out of the house. 

His search was fruitless. He became at length con- 
vinced that Camberwell had been chosen as the place for 
posting the letter, simply to mislead him as to Isola's real 
abode. How was he to discover it?" 

Every day of the ensuing fortnight, at the top of the 
first page of the " Times," appeared this advertisement: 

" IsOLA is solemnly implored to communicate with P. R." 

But Tsola never saw the "Times;" never saw any 
newspaper. Had she seen this advertisement, she would 
assuredly have written again; but Percy, exasperated by 
her silence, which he could not understand — never sus- 
pecting that she had not seen his advertisement — resigned 
himself to his fate. 

Her letter had, however, produced the desired effect. 
It had drawn him from brooding despondency — it had 
restored him his former energy and ambition. Mr. Thorn- 
ton had, in his benevolent desire to secure the safety of 
his new protege, offered him the situation of private secre- 
tary at a salary of one-hundred-and-fifty pounds a-year. Mr. 
Thornton dabbled in literature, and had made collections 
for a " History of the Drama," which he proposed that 



THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 199 

Percy should assist him in arranging in due order, and 
seeing through the press. The proposal was accepted with 
thankfulness; and leaving his old lodgings, he was quickly 
installed in Mr. Thornton's house. 

He was as comfortable in his new situation as it 
was possible, considering his uncertainty about Isola. 
After a little while, he followed Mr. Thornton's advice, 
and accepted Rixelton's offer to write again the theatrical 
critiques in his paper. Ranthorpe wished to study the art 
of the stage, and this office of critic, would, he thought, 
be beneficial to him in that respect. How much he really 
learned in this way it is impossible to guess; but he was 
very assiduous in his attendance, and very careful in his 
criticisms. 

Let us leave him at his new avocation to return to a 
personage introduced early in this history, but of whom we 
have hitherto had no interest in following through the 
downward stages of dissipation and blackguardism. Oliver 
Thornton — the medical student, whom Ranthorpe saw in 
company with Harry Cavendish, in our first chapter — was 
the nephew of old Mr. Thornton. He now re-appears 
upon the stage as a confirmed specimen of the genus 
blackguard. 

When first we saw him, he was to all appearance no 
worse than his fellow-student Harry. Both were " fast 
fellows." Both spent more time in saloons and cider-cellars 
than in the lecture-room or hospital. But now, while 
Harry had gradually been emerging from the slang and 
coarseness of the medical student, and, growing older, had 
grown more like the gentleman nature intended him to 
be, though still with too nr\ich of the old leaven in him; 
Oliver had been as gradually sinking deeper and deeper 
into the mire, till his only fitting atmosphere seemed to be 



200 RANTHOEPE. 

that of night-houses and gaming-tables. In that foul 
marsh, where Harry, like so many of his comrades, had, 
in the exuberance of youth, "sown his wild oats," 
Oliver had rooted his whole existence. 

Mr. Thornton was one evening sitting alone (Ranthorpe 
was at the theatre), discussing a tumbler of his famous 
punch, when Oliver, who had not been near him for some 
months, walked into the room. He was not very well 
pleased to see his nephew; he never was. But a well 
directed compliment respecting the savour of the punch, 
caused him to ring the bell, order another tumbler, and 
prepare to be as amiable as his knowledge of the character 
of Iris nephew would permit. 

" Pray, when do you intend to pass the college?" asked 
the uncle, after a while. 

" Oh ! very shortly. I shall 'grind? " 

" Grind ?" 

" Yes; go to Steggall — he grinds chaps for the college 
in no time. Never fear I I shall work like a beggar." 

" Had you not better work like a surgeon ?" 

" You know what I mean. I suppose you intend to 
stand the needful, uncle ?" 

"Not I. Your ways of life have displeased me. — 
Bah!" 

"What ways of life?" 

" Your ways ; debauchery, idleness, dishonour. You 
stare; — you try to look like indignant virtue. It won't' 
do. I have heard all about you." 

" What have you heard ?" 

" Why, one thing as a sample, you seduced a servant 
girl. Don't deny it ! It is not that I blame so much. I 
have been young myself, and servants are not Lucretias." 

Oliver's face brightened. It lowered again as his uncle 






THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 201 

proceeded — " But if an excuse can be found for that, none 
can be found for your subsequent treatment. She had a 
child; that child you disowned; you refused to give a far- 
thing towards its support; and that, too, at a time when you 
were constantly wheedling me out of money to feed your 
extravagances. Bah ! pitiable ! — contemptible ! You see 
I know all. Don't wonder then, if, from this moment, 
my purse is shut against you as my heart is. Extra- 
vagance — folly — debauchery, I could forgive, as the wild 
errors of youth. But unkindness — dishonourable conduct 
— and to a poor, wretched victim whom you had ruined — 
that, sir, neither belongs to the errors of youth, nor to the 
organisation of a gentleman. — Bah !" 

The old gentleman had warmed himself into a passion 
at the mere contemplation of his nephew's conduct. Oliver 
was silent, uneasy. 

" You have lost all claim upon me, sir; except that of 
being my brother's son. What little I can leave you when 
I die, may be yours, if you reform ; but if I find you pur- 
suing your present career, be assured that 1 shall leave 
that little to a more worthy man." 

" To your secretary, perhaps," suggested Oliver, with a 
sneer. 

" Yes : in all probability. I have a real regard for him ; 
for you I have none." 

"Thank 'ye," said Oliver, rising, and taking his hat. 
" Then I suppose I may look upon the succession as 
booked ? Your brother's son, of course, can't pretend to 
so much regard as a stranger ?" 

" Oliver, I do not forget you are my brother's son ; 
do not you forget it. Let his name be preserved from 
disgrace. I repeat it : if you reform, you shall not want. 



202 KANTHOKPE. 

What I can leave shall be yours. I do this for your 
father's sake — not yours. But continue to lead your 
present life, and I disown and disinherit you. Bah !" 

Oliver felt a strong temptation to commit some vio- 
lence ; but restraining himself, as he saw the impossi- 
bility of escaping detection, he held out his hand, 
promised reformation, and quitted the house in a fit of 
sullen rage. 

C 'D — n him!" he muttered, " I shall be done, if he 
doesn't shortly hop the twig? 

And he continued his walk, grimly speculating on his 
uncle's death. 

" He knows too much" — thought Oliver — "a great 
deal too much. If he should find out that affair at 
Epsom" (he alluded to a disgraceful case of swindling 
in which he had been implicated), "it is all up with 
me — no legacy. D — n him ! What an old frump he is ! 
And to think that I am his heir. If he would only break 
his neck !" 

He continued his walk homewards, occupied with these 
dark thoughts; speculating on the advantages he should 
derive from his uncle's death ; and on the danger he 
incurred of being disinherited, if his uncle did not shortly 
die. On awaking the next morning, the same thoughts 
presented themselves to him. They pursued him through 
the day. That night he dreamt that his uncle had been 
murdered. He awoke greatly disappointed. 

All that day, and all the next, this one current of 
thought was scarcely interrupted. His uncle's death 
soon became a fixed idea with him. It fascinated him — 
haunted him. Vague thoughts of murder had tempted 
his soul, but were shndderingly evaded. They returned, 



THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 203 

again and again, and at length were evaded without horror. 
They became familiar: from that moment they became 
dangerous ! 

The idea of murder, which had become familiar to his 
mind, was soon to be converted into a resolution. He 
tampered with his conscience and his fears ; he fought 
against the growing resolution, feeling that it would be 
fatal to him ; he endeavoured, in new orgies, to drown 
the desperate thoughts which haunted him. But it was 
too late. The idea had become a fixed idea. He must 
either become a murderer or a monomaniac ! 

The tyrannous influence of fixed ideas — of thoughts 
which haunt the soul, and goad the unhappy wretch to 
his perdition — is capable, I think, of a physiological no 
less than of a psychological explanation. 

Some fearful thought presents itself, and makes, as 
people figuratively say, a deep impression. By a law of 
our nature, it is the tendency, almost invincible, of all 
thoughts connected with that fearful one — either acci- 
dentally or inherently connected with it — to recal it when- 
ever they arise. This association of ideas therefore 
prevents the thought from evanescing. In proportion to 
the horror or interest inspired by that thought, will be the 
strength of the tendency to recurrence. The brain may 
be then said to be in a state of partial inflammation, 
owing to the great affluence of blood in one direction. 
And precisely as the abnormal affluence of blood towards 
any part of the body will produce chronic inflammation, 
if it be not diverted, so will the current of thought in 
excess in any one direction produce monomania. Fixed 
ideas may thus be physiologically regarded as chronic 
inflammations of the brain. 

Reader ! this digression is not idle. If you find your- 



204 RANTHORPE. 

self haunted by any ideas which you would fain shake off, 
remember that the only effectual way to rid yourself of 
them is one somewhat analogous to that practised for 
inflammation of the body. You must draw the current 
of your thoughts elsewhere. You must actively, 
healthily, employ your mind and your affections. You 
must create fresh associations with such things as have 
a tendency to recal the thoughts you would evade. 
Let the mind recover its elasticity by various activity, and 
you are safe. 

Had Oliver plunged into fresh dissipations before the 
idea of murder had become a fixed one — before the 
inflammation had become chronic — then he might have 
been saved. But he tried it too late. The dull morn- 
ings following debauchery only left him an easier prey 
to his fierce thoughts ; while the extravagances which 
made money more and more necessary, served to place 
his uncle's death in more advantageous colours to him. 

I cannot follow him through all the struggles his fears 
and conscience held with this fascinating idea of murder. 
Enough if I state that it at length subdued him. It 
seemed to him as if there were no alternative between his 
going to the dogs, and murdering his uncle. But of 
course his uncle's death was a means, not an end. He 
had no vengeance to satisfy ; he had no particular hatred 
towards his uncle ; he only wanted his money. His object 
therefore was to remove an obstacle, without drawing any 
suspicion upon himself. 

Oliver was extremely* cunning, and as unprincipled. 
His whole thoughts were now directed towards forming 
some plan whereby he might escape suspicion. Poison in 
any shape would not prevent suspicion, because he would 
not be able to prove his absence from the scene. To hit 



THE WOOF IS WEAVING. 205 

upon some plan which should absolve him from all danger, 
and, the more effectually to do so, to throw the suspicion 
upon another, was the problem to be solved. Many 
plans were thought of; but none were free from danger. 
" Murder will out," and in so many ways, that the most 
ingenious cannot foresee all the trivial circumstances which 
give the clue. 

At length his plan was perfected. 



206 RANTHOEPE. 



CHAPTER V. 

NIGHT OF THE MURDER. 

Threescore and ten I can remember -well; 

"Within the volume of which time I've seen 

Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night 

Hath trifled former knowings. 

Shakspeaee. 

" Sad piece of extravagance, that of wearing pumps in 
the day-time," said Mr. Thornton to his nephew, as they 
were sitting together awaiting tea, on that evening chosen 
by Oliver for his desperate act. 

Oliver smiled as he answered: "Oh, they're an old 
pair, quite unfit for parties, and the weather is so warm." 

" Well, well, it's no business of mine, to be sure; only 
as you have determined on a thorough reformation (excel- 
lent determination, too, and will gain your uncle's heart), 
it seems to me that extravagance in dress — " 

" But, my dear uncle, it's economy. You would not 
have me throw them away because they're too shabby for 
dinner-parties and ' hops,' would you?" 

Mrs. Griffith, the housekeeper, entered at that moment, 
to say something to Mr. Thornton. 

" Good day, Mrs. Griffith," said Oliver, glad of this 
opportunity of procuring a witness of his amity with his 



NIGHT OF THE MURDER. 207 

uncle. " Come, look approvingly, Mrs. Griffith — encou- 
rage me in virtue. See now good uncle is ! I have com- 
menced my reform — am going to become a respectable 
member of society — and uncle's going to celebrate the 
prodigal nephew's return with a bowl of his inimitable 
punch I" 

Mrs. Griffith was all smiles. She always knew Mr. 
Oliver was a good young gentleman, and told Mr. 
Thornton so. She thought that young men would be 
young men; but that Mr. Oliver would be sure to be 
steady, after a while. 

" Thank'ye, Mrs. Griffith," replied Oliver, highly- 
pleased with his success; "but now I must give you a 
little trouble — and that is, to find my 6 Astley Cooper's 
Lectures,' which I left here some months ago, and you 
said you had put away for me." 

" That's true, Mr. Oliver; I'll get it immediately/' 

Mrs. Griffith returned empty-handed, declaring that the 
book was not where she fancied she had placed it, and 
that it must have been put away somewhere else. 

A strange look of triumph might have been observed 
in Oliver's eyes at this point. He wanted to search the 
house, in company with one of the servants, as a proof 
that no one could have been concealed there. 

" Well, before I go I will have a rummage with you, 
Mrs. Griffith," he said; " don't trouble yourself now. I 
shall know the book among a thousand — a mere glimpse 
is enough for me." 

A merry evening was spent over the punch. Oliver 
was all amiability, and contrived to draw his uncle 
into telling many of his famous stories, at which both 
laughed heartily. Oliver was determined the servants 
should hear the laughter, so kept the door open, on pretext 



208 RANTHOKPE. 

of tlie heat. He succeeded; for when Mrs. Griffith 
came up again, she remarked upon their merriment. 

ei By the bye, now, Mrs. Griffiths, if you are at your lei- 
sure we will have our rummage." 

The proposal was accepted; the house was searched; 
every cupboard was opened, they looked under every 
sofa, and into every hole and corner. The book was not 
found, simply because Oliver had already abstracted it. 

But something else was found — at least by him. As 
Mrs. Griffith went up to look in one of the attics, Oliver 
darted into Ranthorpe's room. He opened the drawer 
of the looking-glass, and took a razor out of its case. 
He then carefully shut the drawer, concealed the razor in 
his pocket, and hastily followed Mrs. Griffith. 

Giving up the search as fruitless, they returned to the 
drawing-room, where Oliver said he would take one 
more glass of punch with his uncle, and then go home, 
as it was getting late. 

The punch was drunk ; Oliver rose to depart, shook 
his uncle's hand warmly, and ran rapidly down stairs, 
opened the door, and slammed it with some violence. 
But he had shut himself in ! The servants would all 
swear they heard him go — heard him " shut the door 
after him." Yet he had simply shut the. door before 
him. Creeping stealthily into the back parlour (the use 
of his thin pumps is now betrayed !) he noiselessly con- 
cealed himself under the sofa. 

His uncle retired to bed ; the servants followed — the 
housemaid alone was waiting up for Ranthorpe, who was 
at the theatre. Oliver waited in fearful impatience. 
Every thing had succeeded hitherto ; his plan seemed to 
succeed even in its smallest details. But the perilous 
moment was to come ; his heart throbbed violently as he 



NIGHT OF THE MURDER. 209 

heard Ranthorpe's knock — heard the servant let him in 
— heard him take his candle, and walk up stairs to bed — 
and heard the housemaid lock the street door, and put up 
the chain. 

He breathed freely again as the last sounds died away. 
Every one was by this time in bed. He would wait an 
hour or two longer, to allow sleep to dull their senses ; and 
then the fatal, perilous blow should be given ! The clock 
ticked audibly; and struck the hours with horrible dis- 
tinctness. Oliver trembled beneath each stroke. It seemed 
to him so loud, that every one in the house must be 
awakened by it. But it ceased, and a dead stillness suc- 
ceeded. Then twelve sounded ; then one ; and then two. 
But these sounds seemed so loud to him that he could not 
venture forth — he could not believe they were unheard 
up stairs. In this state of fear and suspense he remained 
till three o'clock. 

He was right in believing that the sounds were heard. 
One at least heard them ; and that was Percy Ranthorpe. 
On entering his room he had thrown himself upon his 
sofa instead of undressing ; and there had yielded up his 
imagination to the delights of dramatic composition. He 
had come from seeing Macready in a new tragedy ; and 
his own dramatic ambition had received a powerful stimu- 
lus. Walking home he had sketched the large outlines of 
a tragedy, and he was now thinking over some of the 
scenes. Wtiile thus scheming, he sank asleep upon the 
sofa ; or rather let me say he dozed and dreamed. 

At length he heard the clock strike three, and became 
aware of his position. He determined to undress and go 
to bed. But whoever has fallen asleep in a chair, or on a 
sofa, knows how reluctantly one moves from it — how the 
exertion of rising and undressing is shirked as long as 

P 



210 RANTHORPE. 

practicable. This reluctance — this stupor of sleep was felt 
by Ranthorpe. He lay there making up his mind to 
arise, and making up his body to continue where he was. 

From this half- waking state he was startled by a low, 
creaking sound, as of a step. In such moments the sense 
of hearing is very acute. The sound was repeated, and 
repeated. Some one was slowly stealing up stairs. He 
sat up, and listened. His heart beat so loud, that he could 
hear it. He was a brave man ; but he was nervous and 
imaginative. His imagination always converted nightly 
sounds into some exaggerated horrors. Aware of this — 
aware of how often he had alarmed himself with puerile 
terrors, aroused by trifling sounds at night — he refused to 
credit the suggestions which crowded upon him. Who 
could be up at this hour? Might it not be a sound from 
the next house? Another step scattered such reasonings, 
and redoubled the throbbings of his agitated heart. There 
was a robber in the house ! " And yet/' he thought, " how 
absurd to suppose a robbery committed in the midst of 
London, in a house, too, where all the servants are old 
and faithful !" But the beatings of his heart could not so 
be quieted ! All was silent again. He listened intently. 
He was averse to go down stairs, and see if any one really 
were in the house, lest he should needlessly alarm the 
sleepers. But the sounds he had heard were so exactly 
like those of some one creeping up stairs, that he could not 
be calmed by the present quiet, and listened therefore for 
some new indication. He sat motionless; holding his 
breath, and trying to master the nervous beating of his 
heart, that the noise might not interfere with his catching 
any other sounds. But the nervous agitation he was in, 
made a " ringing" in his ears, which exasperated him. 

At length the continuance of the silence —only a few 



NIGHT OF THE MURDER. 211 

minutes, but to liim they seemed almost an hour — 
caused him to smile at his suppositions. He accused him- 
self of again allowing his quick imagination to play tricks 
with him. He was about to get up and undress, in the 
full assurance that he had needlessly alarmed himself, 
when he fancied he heard a door gently opened. His 
nerves again trembled; the ringing in his ears came back. 
Could he again be cheating himself? Was he but the 
victim to acute senses, and over-active imagination? Un- 
able to bear the suspense, he arose, determined to go down 
stairs, and satisfy himself. He was scarcely on his feet, 
when a muffled sound underneath made his heart leap 
against his breast — a low groan pierced his ear, and filled 
his mind with images of horror. He dashed down stairs 
— burst into Mr. Thornton's room — where he had only 
time to see his venerable friend half-lying out of bed, — a 
fearful gash across his throat, — and to see the assassin leap 
out of the window. A wild cry burst from him, as he 
sprang to the window, and overturned a table, which 
fell with a crash. Without thinking of what he was 
doing, he darted after the assassin. He leapt down upon 
the leads, and from thence into the garden. He was in 
time to run along the party wall, and meet the ruffian 
on the roof of the stables, which were at the back of the 
garden. 

Oliver seeing himself so closely pursued, turned and 
grappled with Ranthorpe. It was a terrible struggle. 
Both were young and powerful; both were animated hj 
fierce passions. The slated roof upon which they stood, 
was but a precarious footing, and one slip would be fatal. 
But they closed ! Ranthorpe was too fiercely bent upon 
capturing the assassin, and bringing him to justice, to 
think of the most obvious means of doing so ; that is, of 

p2 



212 EANTHOHPE. 

calling out lustily. In terrible silence lie grasped his an- 
tagonist. His heart bounded as he heard the sounds of 
alarm proceeding from the house. Mr. Thornton would 
be attended to ! 

The struggle, though long to recount, was brief to act. 
Oliver was the more powerful of the two ; and he had to 
struggle for life. With one gigantic effort he disengaged 
himself from Ranthorpe's grasp, and with a sudden blow 
on the chest, sent him reeling over the roof. Ranthorpe 
fell into the garden, and was stunned by the fall. 

On returning to his senses he found himself in the 
parlour surrounded by policemen, servants, and strangers. 
Conceive his horror and indignation at rinding that he 
was supposed to be the murderer ! 

He tried to spring up, but his bruised frame refused. 
He sank back upon the sofa and sobbed like a child. Well 
as he was assured that his innocence must be proved in a 
little while, he gave himself up solely to his grief at the 
thought of Mr. Thornton's dreadful end. All that the un- 
fortunate old man had been able to articulate when the 
alarmed servants found him, was " Ranthorpe;" and with 
that he feebly pointed to the window and expired. 

This last act, and this last word of one who loved him, 
were interpreted into an accusation! "Mrs. Griffith," 
shrieked Ranthorpe, " where is Mrs. Griffith?" 

" Here," sobbed that lady. 

" You, Mrs. Griffith, cannot you free me from this loath- 
some, this insulting suspicion ? Cannot you testify how I 
loved that dear old man — how he loved me ? Cannot you 
tell the world how impossible it is that I could have 
thought of such a crime ? What ! silent ? weeping, yet 
silent? O God! O God! even she believes me guilty!" 

" No, no, no, Mr. Percy," sobbed Mrs. Griffith— hex 



NIGHT OF THE MURDER. 213 

suspicions banished in an instant by the pained innocence 
of his voice: "No, I do not believe you guilty; never 
will I believe it ; but appearances are so against you, my 
testimony cannot shake them." 

" And they are?" he asked haughtily. 

"They are," interposed one of the by-standers, " toler- 
ably strong. There was no one in the house but yourself 
and the servants. Mrs. Griffith had searched every hole 
and corner in company with Mr. Thornton's nephew. No 
one, therefore, was concealed. Yet the house was locked 
up — no entrance had been forced ; consequently, the mur- 
derer must have been one of the inmates. The circum- 
stances which point to you are these: The razor with 
which the murder was committed was yours." 

" Mine — how can you say that?" 

" Because your razor-case was found open and empty !" 

Ranthorpe stared bewildered. The man continued : 

" Your bed was found untouched; you had not slept in 
it." 

" True. I had fallen asleep on the sofa." 

" You never did so before?" 

"No." 

" Exactly. It looks very suspicious that you should 
have done so then. You were found lying in the garden, 
having, it is presumed, fallen in an attempt to escape. 
The last words of Mr. Thornton are enough to convict 

you." 

Ranthorpe sank back again. He saw what a fatal chain 
of circumstances encircled him ; but he felt that whoever 
had done the deed, had marvellously planned it ; and that 
at present, at least, he must endure the suspicions of the 
world. 

Led before the magistrate, he underwent the exami- 



214 KANTHOKPE. 

nation with great calmness and haughtiness, which were 
mistaken for hardened guilt. There again he heard the 
damning evidence detailed. The servants all swore that 
Oliver had left the house. The housemaid swore she put 
up the door-chain, which was found untouched when the 
alarm was given. The evidence to the murderer being one 
of the inmates was conclusive ; the evidence against Ran- 
thorpe was scarcely less so. It was contradicted indeed 
by the testimonies of the affection which existed between 
Mr. Thornton and Ranthorpe; and by the proofs that 
no ill-will had been apparent on either side, nor had there 
been any symptoms of a quarrel. These were strong pre- 
sumptions against the evidence. There seemed no possi- 
ble motive why Ranthorpe should have committed the 
act, and every motive why he should not. Nevertheless, the 
facts were so damning, that the magistrate was forced to 
commit him for trial. 

The papers were full of it. London was divided into 
two parties, one for and one against Ranthorpe. All the 
literary men were indignant at any one's believing him 
guilty. Was there ever known, they triumphantly asked, 
a single instance of murder committed by a literary man? 
Not one. And was it probable that a sane man, a man 
like Ranthorpe, should do that to a benefactor, which no 
literary man had ever been known to do to his bitterest 
enemy, his worst wronger? 



THE PURSUIT. 215 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE PURSUIT. 

Not a word! 
It is beyond debate ; we must act here 
As men who clamber up a precipice. 

Guidone : a dramatic Poem. 

It was a fortunate illness that kept Isola to her bed 
at this time ; she thus heard nothing of the murder, or of 
Ranthorpe's perilous situation. His other friends suf- 
fered greatly on his account. They all believed him inno- 
cent, but no one kaw any means of proving it. 

Harry, Wynton, and Joyce discussed the whole ques- 
tion. 

" A thought occurs to me," said Harry, " one of the 
worst appearances against Ranthorpe is the razor. Now 
if we assume that he is innocent, it follows that the razor 
must have been abstracted from his room on the very 
day, since he himself must have used it in the morning." 

"Certainly, certainly. A clue!" exclaimed Wynton. 

" We have then to ascertain who were the people 
known to have been in the house on that day." 

"Exactly," said Joyce, "I happen to be one; but I 
hope I'm not implicated." 



216 RANTHORPE. 

Wynton then said : 

" I was also there. But Mrs. Griffith told nie that the 
old gentleman's nephew spent the evening there." 

" He's our man !" exclaimed Harry, striking his hand 
upon the table. 

" But he was on the best possible terms with his uncle," 
said Wynton. 

"But he is an arrant scamp," retorted Harry, " and I 
feel a perfect conviction he is the murderer." 

" Yet the servants heard him go out." 

" I don't care. I don't know how he did it, but 
I am sure he's the man." 

The three then went to the house; and while Joyce 
and Wynton talked to Mrs. Griffith, Harry examined 
the house, with a view of ascertaining how an entrance 
could have been made. He then went to the stables; 
but they betrayed nothing. As he was looking about, 
him, however, he discovered behind a dung-heap a man's 
hat. He picked it up; it was not Ranthorpe's. He 
looked at the maker's name; and telling Joyce that he 
believed he was on the scent, jumped into a cab, and 
drove to Oxford Street. He entered the hatter's shop, 
and having ascertained that Oliver dealt there, which 
confirmed all his doubts, he ordered the cabman to drive 
to Mornington Place, Hampstead Road, where Oliver 
lodged. 

He asked to see the landlady. 

" I must request profound secrecy of you, madam, as 
the life of a fellow-creature depends on it," he said to 
her. She was considerably alarmed at this opening. 
" But will you do me the favour of telling me if Mr. 
Thornton stayed at home on Monday evening last ?" 



THE PURSUIT. 217 

"No, sir, tie never stops at home." 

"Humph! Do you happen to know what time he 
came home?" 

" I do not, but I can ask the servant; she let him in. 
It certainly was not before one, because I had some friends, 
who did not leave me till then." 

" Not before one," said Harry to himself, " and they 
said he left the house about eleven; good." Then ad- 
dressing himself again to her, " Do not, I beg, speak to 
the servant about it — she may blab." 

" I suppose I dare not venture to ask the reason of 
this inquiry?" she said, with some curiosity. 

"My dear madam, you shall very quickly know all; 
but at present I must not only be secret myself, but most 
earnestly request you not to mention a syllable to any 
one respecting this visit. And I need only tell you that 
by so doing you will prevent the officers of justice coming 
here and bringing scandal upon your house." 

This threat was well devised, and had full effect. The 
old lady exclaimed : " Officers of Justice !" 

" HushP' replied Harry, " not a word. My visit will 
render theirs unnecessary; that is, if you second me." 

" Oh ! by all means, and with thanks — with thanks I" 

" Good; then will you let your servant have a holiday 
to-morrow evening? She will ask you to go to the theatre, 
and say she has got orders. You will not refuse?" 

" Certainly not; but what can she be wanted for?" 

Harry laid his finger on his lips with grave significance, 
and then said : 

" Enough, she is wanted. Do not appear to know any 
thing, and you will save yourself a good deal of trouble. 
And I forgot to add, that should you notice any men 
hanging about the neighbourhood, and watching the 



218 RANTHORPE. 

house, do not be alarmed, they will be police in plain 
clothes. Make no observation." 

He left the house well satisfied. 

The art of courting maid-servants and milliners is an 
art much cultivated by medical students. It is an art by 
itself. The man who understands all the labyrinths of a 
lady's heart, who is irresistible in the drawing-room, 
would miserably fail in the kitchen. Filer le parfait 
amour is not the art of love known by the Ovids and 
Gentil Bernards of the lower regions. Fun there takes 
precedence of sentiment ; a knowledge of the life of 
the lower classes is more necessary than a knowledge of 
books, which is useless. 

Deeply skilled in this art was Harry Cavendish; he 
was, in fact, a distinguished victimiser. His plan was to 
get the servant of all work at the house where Oliver 
lodged, to accompany him to the theatre, confident that 
if he once got her out, he should be able to learn all she 
knew. 

I cannot detail the progress of the siege. Suffice it 
that Mary was easily captivated by Harry, and was de- 
lighted at the idea of going to see a play, " a thing of 
which she was pertiklar fond." 

The reader is requested, therefore, to accompany 
them to the pit of the Adelphi Theatre, where John 
Reeve and Buckstone are making them shout with 
laughter. 

" Oh! he's a funny feller, that he is," said Mary, as 
the act-drop fell. 

" That's just it," replied Harry, "Lord, you should 
see him do the ' Medical Student;' to the life, and no 
mistake.' , 

"Lor!" 



THE PURSUIT. 219 

" You know what a queer chap you've got among your 
lodgers, don't you?" 

"What, Mr. Thornton?" 

" Yes — you'll have some oranges, Mary? Pooh ! don't 
be modest. Here, you princess ! — he ! oranges !" 

This was addressed to a stout old woman who was 
crushing the knees of the audience as she wedged herself 
between the seats with the melodious cry of " Oranges, 
ginger-beer, bill of the play !" 

"Now, my fat friend" said Harry, as she came up, 
" let's see what you've got in the way of oranges." 

This playful address made the old woman grin, and 
Mary stuff her handkerchief into her mouth to hide her 
laughter. Some oranges were bought, and while Harry 
was peeling one, he continued, 

" Well, this Thornton was a fellow lodger of mine 
once. Oh, wasn't he a queer chap I" 

"Oh! ain't he still! Oh, no! Lord, I could tell 
you such larks of his I" 

" Do, there's a dear. Here's a delicious orange; you 
have it, Mary; yes, do. Well, I was going to say that one 
night when I sat up for him because the servant refused, 
how d'ye think he came home?" 

"How?— Do tell us." 

"Why, with his coat slit up the back, and without his 
hat. He lost his hat in a scuffle, and scampered home 
without it." 

" Lor, how odd ! I've a good mind I say, you 

won't tell, if I tell you something?" 

" Oh! here's a juicy one : do taste this, Mary, dear. 
Isn't it famous? — Well, you were going to tell me some- 
thing." 



220 RANTHOKPE. 

" But you promise not to tell? 'cos he'll give me half- 
a-sovereign not to. But then, to be sure, lie only meant 
that I wasn't to tell missus, or the lodgers, 'cos he would 
look ridiklous. But don't you say a word ; — he came 
home t'other night in a cab, without his hat, and in such 
a flurry !" 

" Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Harry, trying to conceal his 
triumph in boisterous mirth. " Well, that is a good one. 
Didn't you laugh, Mary?" 

" That I did! ' Lawk! Mr. Thornton,' says I, 'why 
where in 'evin's name is your hat?' says I; so says he, 
' Mary,' says he, ' I've been in such a spree, but I've had the 
worst of it,' says he ; ' two chaps pitched into me,' says he, 
' and I was 'bliged to cut and run for it. Couldn't stop 
for my hat,' says he, ' 'cos it was a old 'un,' says he. ' Quite 
right, too, Mr. Thornton,' says I. f But I say, Mary/ says 
he, ' don't you say any thing to your missus about this, nor 
to the lodgers. Be sure you don't say any thing about 
my coming home without my hat,' says he, ' *cos it would 
make me look so precious ridiklous.' So, says I, ' That I 
won't, 5 says I. ' Well then,' says he, ' if you don't, Mary, 
I'll give you half-a-sovereign at the end of the month, — 
if you do, I shall certainly not' ' No fears,' says I, and 
gave him his candle." 

"Devilish good!" said Harry, laughing. "I wonder 
whether it was on Monday night, after he left me?" 

" Tuesday morning, if you please — and precious early, 
too ! It was nearly four o'clock, I'll swear." 

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! and was he much pummelled about?" 

" No ; he was in a pickle, but not bruised ; 'cos he 
says he's a first-rate boxer, and had tapped one man's 
claret, — some of the blood was on the front of his shirt." 



THE PUKSUIT. 221 

(i Well, lie is a rum one ! But the second act is going 
to begin." 

Harry had accomplished his object : he had obtained 
conclusive evidence, so allowed Mary to enjoy the play 
as she best could, and left the conversation almost entirely 
in her hands. She noticed this ; but he pleaded headach. 
He was too occupied with his own thoughts, to support 
any longer the character he had assumed. He was con- 
sidering whether the evidence he had collected would be 
considered as only presumptive ; and fearful lest it might 
not be sufficient, he resolved on an attempt to make Oliver 
confess. 

The next day he went to Mornington Place. Oliver 
was at home ; indeed, he kept himself shut up, pleading 
the great shock which his uncle's death had given to his 
nerves. He remained in his room, a victim to the aveng- 
ing Eumenides. His conscience would not be stifled. His 
fears were terrible. Every knock at the door went to his 
heart, as if it announced his arrest. Every noise in the 
street sounded like the mob coming to seize him. He 
read the morning and evening paper with horrible eager- 
ness. Every line respecting the murder made him thrill. 
Every surmise seemed to him growing into a certitude 
that he was the guilty wretch. Every word in Ran- 
thorpe's defence seemed to him as if it must point him 
out to justice. If his landlady came to speak to him, to 
ask him how he felt, or if she could get any thing for 
him, he thought her motive was to spy upon him. If 
Mary spoke to him, or looked at him, when she 
came into the room, he thought she was watching the 
expression of his countenance, with a view to read if he 
were guilty. 

When he was facing others, and had to assume a 



222 EANTHOEPE. 

character, the energy and attention necessary for him to 
perform the part, made him forget his horror and his 
fears. But left alone to himself, in company with his 
fears, existence was torture to him. He had thought of 
Hying to America, but was afraid, lest it should look 
suspicious. He had tried to forget his thoughts in one of 
his favourite night houses, but before he had been there 
three minutes, the subject of the recent murder was 
spoken of, and he was forced to hurry away. 

He scarcely slept; and when he did sink into an uneasy 
doze, horrible dreams tortured him. Thus night and 
day, and day and night, he was racked by the most wear- 
ing of agonies — suspense and fear ! 

Such was his suffering, that he was often on the point 
of blowing his brains out, and so ending his misery. He 
had, in fact, made up his mind to do so, and would pro- 
bably have done so, on the very morning when Harry, 
without undergoing the formality of announcing himself, 
walked into his room. He started, as usual, when any 
one put a hand on the lock of his door. 

"Oh! it's you, is it, Cavendish?" he said. "Well, 
any news about your friend?" 

" Yes/' replied Harry, carelessly seating himself, " very 
good news for us; the murderer is discovered." As he 
said this, he raised his eyes full upon Oliver, who vainly 
endeavoured to withdraw all expression from his face. 
He cowered beneath Harry's gaze, and faltered out: 
" How — discovered?" 

" By very simple means — from the description of his 
person given by Ranthorpe, which was not very accu- 
rate, and from some other suspicious circumstances, I 
thought I could name the man. His hat was found in 
the stables, which had been dropped in the struggle," 



THE PURSUIT. 223 

— (Here Oliver glared upon him like a wild beast) — 
" and I found the maker's name. You will naturally 
suppose I lost no time in asking that maker if he made 
hats for the person I'm speaking of, and his reply was 
satisfactory." 

" Go on !" hoarsely whispered Oliver. 

" The rest of my story is too long to relate in detail. 
Enough, that I ascertained from the servant who let him in, 
that the individual I speak of came home on Tuesday morn- 
ing ivithout his hat." Oliver's breath was suspended ; his eyes 
were bloodshot with suppressed rage. " Not only without 
his hat, but with blood upon his shirt; and, to crown all, 
he promised the servant half a sovereign. — You need not fix 
your eyes upon that knife ! Take it, if you please ; you 
dare not use it against me. And if you dare — if your 
murderous heart has sufficient courage, your murderous 
hand has only strength enough to cope with sleeping 
old men." 

This was said with such crushing scorn and loathing, 
that Oliver bounded like a panther upon him — the knife 
flashed in the air — and had Harry been less active or 
less prepared, it would have entered his breast ; but, ac- 
customed as he was to single-stick, his quick eye and 
ready arm saved him from the danger. A sharp blow, 
with an oak-stick upon the ruffian's wrist, made him drop 
the knife. 

" I told you it was useless," said Harry, coolly. 

" You know my secret !" yelled the exasperated Oliver, 
snatching up the knife again — " and you shall pay for it." 

6i This time I warn you," replied Harry ; " I shall not 
content myself with disarming you." And he placed 
himself in an attitude of defence. 



224 RANTHORPE. 

" This time !" said Oliver, grinding his teeth — " I may 
as well swing for two as for one." 

A rapid blow on the elbow made his arm fall useless 
at his side, and at the same instant the door was flung 
open, and two policemen rushed in. At this sight Oliver 
made an attempt to escape out of the window, but the 
attempt was fruitless. He was soon handcuffed, and borne 
off to prison. 

" Mary," said Harry, u I've deprived you of half-a- 
sovereign — but there are two halves as compensation; 
besides the satisfaction you must feel in having been the 
instrument of this ruffian's conviction." 

"Lawk! well, who would have thought it!" was the 
reflection of the consoled Mary. 






THE TURNING POINT. 225 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE TURNING POINT. 

To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

SlIAKSPEAEE. 

Ranthorpe was released, and in due time Oliver was 
executed. But although our hero had escaped the peril, 
he had not escaped the curse of notoriety. The tragical 
events in which he had been implicated were of them- 
selves distressing enough. His friend murdered — that 
kind, good, strange old man, removed for ever from his 
love — this alone was sufficient to depress him. But to 
this was added the painful curiosity of strangers, which 
not only kept his wounds open, but made him feel himself 
an object of notoriety. 

One incident I cannot omit, it is so illustrative of the- 
atrical life. A fortnight after his acquittal, the manager 
of a minor theatre, which shall be nameless, called upon 
him, and with inimitable effrontery proposed that Ran- 
thorpe should sustain his own character in a new piece 
about to be produced, entitled " The Dark Deed; or, the 
Knightsbridge Murder." 

" If you will undertake this slight part," continued the 
manager, " I can offer you a splendid salary — fifty pounds 
a week, sir; fifty pounds a week !" 

Q 



226 RANTHORPE. 

Ranthorpe was half irritated, half amused; but shook 
his head, negatively. 

" Don't refuse it, pray, sir; consider fifty poundsa week 
— come, I don't mind if I say seventy pounds — and abso- 
lutely nothing to do but to rush into the room — give a 
start — look aghast — and shriek, i Ha F and to re-appear 
as the accused murderer, with your dress a little dis- 
arranged — that's all, sir." 

" I fear," replied Ranthorpe, smiling, " that all would 
be far too much for me. I must decline being any further 
mixed up with this matter." 

" Timid, I suppose; but you'll soon shake off that." 

" No 5 sir, I shall never shake off my disgust at the in- 
famous desecration of the privacies of life, which that 
system of dramatising recent events fosters. It is bad 
enough to see the newspapers pander to the vile appetites 
of the blood-loving public. The stage has not the excuse 
of the papers." 

He rose as he said this, and the manager was forced to 
take his leave. He returned, however, speedily, and said : 
" Mr. Ranthorpe, I appreciate your motives, you don't 
like to appear before the lamps. But you can still assist 
me ; and I will pay for the assistance. Sell me the razor 
with which the murder was committed — I'll give fifty 
pounds for it. All London will flock to my theatre to see 
the real razor ! Think what posters I could give ! " Every 
Night — ' The Dark Deed.' In which the real razor 
used by the murderer will be introduced. Come early." 

The manager was quite exalted at the imaginary pro- 
spect of such an attraction ; but he quickly scampered down 
stairs, as he saw Ranthorpe approach him, breathless with 
indignation. 

Harry laughed heartily when he heard of it, and de- 



THE TURNING POINT. 227 

clared the manager was a knowing fellow, who rightly 
appreciated the public. 

But Ranthorpe could bear this notoriety no longer. 
He resolved on quitting England. He was unhappy; he 
was purposeless. To be always regarded as the Mr. Ran- 
thorpe, who had figured in the papers as the murderer of 
his benefactor, was peculiarly galling to him. 

It had been his day dream to have his name in every- 
body's mouth ; that dream was now realized in a hateful 
shape. He had aspired to celebrity, and had been forced 
into notoriety. 

He thought of Germany. He could teach English 
there, as a means of livelihood; and while doing so, not 
only would the public forget him, and his history, but he 
would also be preparing himself more fitly for his career. 
Germany would afford him subsistence — study — and 
oblivion. 

A day or two before his departure, he read with strange 
agitation the announcement of the marriage of Florence 
Wilmington with Sir Frederick Hawbucke, Baronet. 

" So, the coquette married at last!" he said, as he laid 
the paper down, " and to that rich fool, Hawbucke. Well, 
they will both be miserable." 

The train of thought which this incident awakened was 
extremely painful to him. The past rose before him, and 
it was full of reproaches. He saw himself again the happy 
boy, elated by ambition, undaunted by poverty — he saw 
himself a lion, and dazzled by a small success — he reviewed 
the progress of corruption, as it had contaminated his 
mind, and deadened his feelings — he saw himself ensnared 
by the arts of a coquette — lived over again the humiliation 
of his rejected love, the failure of his tragedy, and his 

last misfortune. 

* 

Q2 



228 EANTHORPE. 

"Well, I shall leave England," lie said, "and leave 
behind me the memory of these errors. A new epoch 
opens. In Germany, I shall learn not only to forget the 
follies and errors of my youth, but, by being removed from 
every thing that can recall them, be enabled to work out 
a path for myself undisturbed. Driven from England, in 
Germany I shall gain quiet contentment." 

Self-exiled from his native land, he has now reached 
the great turning point in his career. How will he 
prosper? 



THE MISEPwIES OP GENIUS. 229 



CHAPTER VIII. 

THE MISERIES OP GENIUS. 

We poets in our youth begin in gladness; 

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness! 

Wordsworth. 

And mighty poets in their misery dead! 

Ibid. 

D — n the Muses! I abominate them and their works; they are the 
nurses of poverty and insanity! 

Chatterton. 

There is not in all the martyrologies that ever were penned, so 
rueful a narrative as that of the lives of poets. 

Burns. 

Most wretched men 

Are cradled into poetry from wrong; 

They learn in suffering what they teach in song. 

Shelley. 

Gli scrittori grandi, incapaci, per natura o per abito, di molti 
piaceri umani; privi di altri molti per volunta; non di rado negletti nel 
consorzio degli uomini, se non forse dai pocchi che seguono i medesimi 
studi; hanno per destino di condurre una vita simile alia morte, e vivere, 
se pur 1' ottengono, dopo sepolti. 

Giacomo Leopardi. 

Thus has Percy Ranthorpe struggled and suffered. He 
is now sailing on the restless bosom of the sea, and filling 



230 EANTHORPE. 

the monotonous hours with his retrospections. They are 
bitter. His lot has not been happy ; but with whom lies 
the fault? Does he, like so many of his kindred, throw 
the burden of his woes upon his genius? Does he attri- 
bute to his genius those sorrows which, properly speaking, 
have been caused by his want of genius? No; he does 
not juggle with himself; he feels that he has been weak 
and has been punished; he feels that the common cant of 
genius being a fatal gift — a Nessus-poisoned shirt, that con- 
sumes the wearer, is a cant, and nothing more. It is an 
error founded on the most superficial indications, founded 
too often on the complaints of genius itself. 

Genius miserable ! Genius a fatal gift ! O miserable 
philosophy that can so construe it ! Genius is the faculty of 
creation, of admiration, of love. It creates, from the merest 
dross, spirits of beauty which haunt the soul through life. 
It peoples the world with lovely forms, exalted hopes, sky- 
ward aspirings, and everlasting joy: and, because the sen- 
sibility, which is its condition, subjects it to petty annoy- 
ances, annoyances unfelt, or not so keenly felt, by others; 
because its enthusiasm carries it oftentimes from the path 
of prudence ; and because the punishment which follows 
all error is not for it suspended, but falls as upon an 
ordinary nature's ; because, with the precious faculty of 
giving an utterance to all its pains and pleasures, it some- 
times breaks forth into a low plaint, or bitter irony, or wild 
despair, and in those moments curses the very source of all 
its greatness ; because, I say, these things are found accom- 
panying genius, like shadows of its glories, is genius there- 
fore to be called a fatal gift ? Is it not genius, great ma- 
jestic genius, in spite of all? The sun "kisses carrion," 
but is not less the sun ! 

For shame! ye coward and blaspheming souls, who 



THE MISERIES OF GENIUS. 231 

bowing under ^present affliction, have cursed your lives, as 
if they were made up of affliction ! For shame ! ye poets, 
who have carried within you an exhaustless mine of wealth, 
yet knowing one day's poverty, have lifted up your de- 
sperate voices to swell the universal cry of pauperism ! For 
shame ! ye rashly-judging critics who have seized upon this 
single cry, and exclaimed, Listen I such is the expression of 
alife! 

We are mortal men — erring and infirm ; there are mi- 
series awaiting us under every form of life; errors beset 
every profession, and unhappiness darkens the prospect of 
the most fortunate. Shall we then drag from the hospitals 
of theworldall the squalid sick, and holding up their miseries, 
exclaim — " Behold : such is life !" forgetting all the health 
and strength, the beauty and enjoyment which surrounds 
us? Because poets have been poor, and have been driven 
by poverty to irregularities, and sometimes to despair, 
thus wasting their lives in infamous debaucheries, or in 
squalid misery — is therefore genius a fatal gift? If so, 
then where are all the outcasts of society, the disap- 
pointed men in other ranks of life, men not endowed 
with genius? Whence come all the moral and social 
miseries endured by those who have no claim to genius ? 
Does the physician never starve? Is the barrister 
never briefless? Has the clergyman always a living? 
Do these men never corn-plain of their hard lot ? Yes, they 
complain, but their complaint is drowned amidst the mul- 
titude; and neither they, nor the world, attribute their 
misfortunes to their talents ! 

Observe, that all the events of an artist's life become 
public, and are exaggerated by publicity; whereas the 
events of other men's lives rarely gain attention. Suicide 
is daily committed, and statistical tables show a frightful 



232 RANTHORPE. 

amount of human life thus sacrificed, which never occupies 
the public mind ; but when (as has happened perhaps half 
a dozen times) some disappointed genius madly rushes 
from the world to hide in eternity his sorrow and despair, 
then the sad news rings through every country, and is de- 
plored on all sides, serving for ages as an example of the 
"fatal gift!" 

So, if a genius suffers the envy, hatred, malice, and 
all uncharitableness which man heaps on the head of his 
brother, then we have a vehement protest against it in 
written works; he bares his bleeding wounds to public 
gaze, and bids the world observe the reward he has reaped 
— and he is pitied ! 

But do not others daily suffer this? Is there no lacerated 
self-love moaning in privacy, without the power of a pic- 
turesque appeal ? an appeal, recollect, that is itself an 
exquisite gratification ! Other men, besides Lord Byron, 
were deformed, ill taught, deceived, ill-used by friends and 
relations, and suffered from these affronts as keenly : but 
Byron could fuse the passion of defiance and the pathos of 
his sorrows into splendid verse, and so draw down the pity 
and the admiration of all Europe. Nor was this pity and 
this admiration all the consolation he received ; with it he 
received intense delight from the exercise of his poetic 
faculty : there was a rapture in thus sublimating his sorrows 
into monuments of beauty, to which few joys were com- 
parable. His sorrows, in a great part, made him what he 
was : without his melancholy and defiance, his scepticism 
and misanthropy, his wrongs and insults, what would he 
have been ? He differed from other men in being able to 
give his sufferings a picturesque expression, not in the 
sufferings themselves. 

It is because the events of an artist's life are made public, 



THE MISERIES OF GENIUS. 233 

that his sorrows and errors are brought into undue promi- 
nence, casting shadows on all the sunshine of his private 
joys. Whatever arouses him to defiance, whatever wrings 
from him complaint, the world is called upon to notice. 
But all that stirs his soul to rapture — all the intoxicating 
visions of beauty and of glory which exalt his mind — all 
the secret reveries (coquetries of thought) which haunt 
him in his solitude — all the passion of aspiration, and the 
delight in creation — these the world can never know: 
these are locked in his own breast: these form the element 
in which, he lives, and from which he is only wrenched 
by those occasional misfortunes, over which he weeps so 
melodiously. 

Genius a fatal gift? Ah, no! it is the greatest and 
the happiest of endowments. 

" Oh ! who would lose 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts that wander through eternity?" 

Conceive the intense delight genius must feel when 
creating forms of everlasting beauty? Who shall estimate 
the rapture which glowed in the mind of Shakspeare when 
he created Viola, Imogen, Perdita, or Juliet — or of Gothe 
when he drew Gretchen, Clarchen, Mignon, or Faust? I 
sometimes feel, while listening to Beethoven, a rapture so 
intense, absorbing, suffocating, that it verges upon pain, 
and is only relieved by sighs; at such times I ask myself: 
" What could have been passing in his soul when lie conceived 
such unutterable tenderness and beauty?" Only think of the 
visions he must have had before he could have written his 
Pastorale I what thoughts must have oppressed him before 
they found utterance in his Symphonies of C minor and B 
flat ! What gloom — sublime, mystical, terrible, — must have 
visited him before he could have written the Marcia sulla 



234 BANTHORPE. 

morte d'un Eroe ! What witcheries of grace and beauty 
must have haunted him before he could have thought of 
his Septuor I Such raptures — if enduring only for a mo- 
ment — were worthy of years of suffering ! 

Genius is the happiest, as it is the greatest, of human 
faculties. It has no immunity from the common sorrows 
of humanity; but it has one glorious privilege, which it 
alone possesses ; the privilege of turning its sorrows into 
beauty, and brooding delighted over them ! The greatest 
that ever breathed has said, 

" Sweet are the uses of adversity; 
Which like the toad, ugly and venemous, 
"Wears yet a precious jewel in his head!" 

But it is only genius that can extract the jewel, and walk 
the path of life illumined by its light. 

Adversity is an outrage to the common man, an ex- 
perience to the thinking man, a source of pleasure to the 
man of genius. The one revolts against, or else sinks 
under it; the second grapples with it, and wrests some 
compensation for its pains; the third transmutes it into 
beauty, and places it in the storehouse of sweetly-pensive 
memory; and thus 

" Spat erklingt was friih erklang, 
Gliick und Ungliick wird Gesang."* 

Perhaps, by reason of its very unworldliness, genius is 
oftener labouring under the ban of poverty, and the miseries 
which poverty will bring, than regulated dulness or pre- 
sumptuous mediocrity. But can we therein forget the 
exquisite enjoyment — the passion and the rapture which 
constitute its daily food ? for genius is fed by rapture, and 
transmutes all its pains into pleasures. 

That the lives of men of genius are embittered by many 

* Gbthe. 



THE MISERIES OP GENIUS. 235 

miseries, it would be folly to deny. Bad health — bad 
habits, and mistaken aims — as well as those more com- 
mon " ills the flesh is heir to" are not without their 
stings : but these are the accidents and not the consequences 
of genius. Double them, treble them, and you will still 
be unable to counterbalance with them all the pleasures of 
a life of thought ! 



BOOK V. 



ISOLA. 



Soothe her with sad stories, 

O poet, till she sleep! 

Dreams, come forth with all your glories! 

Night breathe soft and deep ! 

Music round her creep ! 

If she steal away to weep, 

Seek her out — and when you find her, 

Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her 

Eound and round, 

Round and round, 

With your bands of softest sound. 

Bare? Cornwall. 



THE HAWBTTCKES. 239 



CHAPTER I. 

THE hawbuce:es. 

La reine en cette cour qu'anime la folie, 

Va, yient, chante, se tait, regarde, ecoute, oublie. 

Andre Chenier. 

The stage is clear; I may, therefore, bring forward 
Florence in a new character, and allow her husband to 
make his debut. 

Florence Wilmington has become Lady Hawbucke; 
that is to say, mistress of one of the handsomest men, and 
prettiest properties in England. Few brides could have 
been happier, more beautiful, or more buoyant. She 
admired her husband more th^n she had ever admired 
any one before ; and although she could hardly be said to 
love him, in any earnest sense of the word, she felt that 
she must be supremely happy as his wife ; and the gay 
volatile creature thoroughly enjoyed all the preparations 
for her wedding, as more amusing even than the pre- 
parations for her " coming out." 

Sir Frederick Hawbucke was a type of the English 
gentleman. His Herculean frame, which would have been 
clumsy in a clown, was carried with such ease and simplicity 
that his height merely added to his dignity. Supreme in 



240 EANTHORPE. 

all corporeal exercises — a bold rider — a dead shot — there 
was nothing in his manner which in the slightest degree indi- 
cated either the roughness of the sportsman, or the pride of 
physical superiority. He had been the same as a boy — 
quiet and inoffensive in ordinary, but terrible in passion, 
and irresistible in a struggle. There were fearful stories 
told of him at Eton — of terrible reprisals taken on those 
who had offended him. Brave as a lion, and as fero- 
cious, his nature was excessively English, and might be 
compared to that of the bull-dog, which, as connoisseurs 
well know, is the dog of dogs for the strange union of 
inoffensiveness and implacability. To see Sir Frederick 
in a room, you would fancy him the quietest and dullest 
of human beings. In action, of any kind, he was the 
promptest and bravest: cool, resolute, and irresistible. 

He was very handsome, but not in the least conceited. 
Morbidly alive to the opinion of the world upon the 
slightest matter connected with himself, and wholly indif- 
ferent to every thing concerning others ; but he concealed 
the former under the same mask of indifference as the latter. 
Indeed, so extraordinary was his self-command, that people 
never divined when they tortured him with their remarks ; 
his stoicism forbade his admitting the possibility of any 
thing wringing a cry from him. 

When Ranthorpe called him te that rich fool," he judged 
him superficially. Sir Frederick's intelligence was some- 
what above the average; he had cultivated it; but that 
want of impulsiveness which distinguishes the Saxon — 
that heavy, phlegmatic organisation, which gives its pecu- 
liarity to the English standard of good breeding, and 
which regards the demonstration of any feeling whatever 
as bordering on vulgarity — that very English virtue, "re- 
serve"— made Sir Frederick always appear to his disad- 



THE HAWBUCKES. 241 

vantage. He was voted dull by lively asses, and ignorant 
by ostentatious pretenders. 

When this large, solid, quiet creature first saw Florence, 
he became enamoured of her. The contradiction of her 
character to his own was the great source of attraction, 
as is usually the case. The heavy, solid giant, with a 
brain as solid, but as unwieldy as his arm, was ravished — 
if so strong an expression may be applied to so circum- 
spect and reserved a nature — by the gay, careless, witty, 
fragile, haughty, coquettish Florence. His plain common- 
sense had its sparkling antithesis in her playful nonsense. 
He could have taken her in his hand like a toy, and he 
crouched at her feet like the timidest of her spaniels. She 
seemed so light and airy a creature, that an embrace of 
his would have crushed her ; and yet he felt as awkward 
and powerless in her presence, as if his giant strength had 
passed to her. 

Bashful and silent, he followed her wherever she went. 
At every party she was sure to meet Sir Frederick; in 
every country-house where she went, he was sure to be 
found. But a thought of his affection never presented 
itself to her. He was always so placid, so dull, and so 
very indifferent, that his manner justified her saying, " I 
like to have Sir Frederick in the house. He's always 
about me ; I look on him as a sort of tame cat. You 
can't consider him a companion, but you like to hear his 
purr, and like to admire his beauty." 

This silent courtship continued for some time, and 
was in progress during her flirtation with Ranthorpe, 
which gave Sir Frederick such alarm, that he more than 
once thought of challenging his happy rival ; which he 
certainly would have done, had the flirtation not ended. 
Indeed, I see not how the ice could have been broken 

R 



■■^ 



242 EANTHORPE. 

by any effort on His part. Florence never could suspect 
that the quiet, gentlemanly, indifferent person, who, though 
always at her side, never seemed roused by her liveliness, or 
charmed by her beauty, had any love for her. If she occa- 
sionally talked more to him, or paid him more attention than 
usual, the only effect produced was that of increased dul- 
ness in Sir Frederick. For, in truth, his invincible shy- 
ness paralysed his tongue ; and because he wanted above 
all things to stand well in her opinion, he was unable to 
venture beyond commonplaces. Directly she approached 
him, he shrunk under the mask of reserve, as the tortoise 
shrinks under its impenetrable shell. 

His aunt came to his relief. She knew his character, 
and divined the state of his feelings; and knowing that 
he would never venture without great encouragement to 
give a hint of his affection, she one day said to Florence, 
as they were walking about Rushfield Park, where they 
were all three staying on a visit : 

" Well, my dear Miss "Wilmington, now do tell me 
how long you intend keeping Sir Frederick in his present 
suspense V 

" What do you mean ?" 

" When is he to be made a happy man ?" 

fl Sir Frederick Hawbucke ? I make ? — ah ! madame, 
fy vols quelque mystification." 

te Not in the least. I am serious, I assure you." 

" Allons done ! What, my tame cat!" 

" You may joke as you please, but you will not convince 
me, my dear, that you have not long been aware of his 
attentions." 

" His attentions! le mot est joli, vraiment! — atten- 
tions, which consist in standing by me without opening 
his lips, dancing with me without an extra sparkle in 



mmmmmmmmm 



THE HAWBUCKES. 243 

his eye, riding with me without a single pretty terror, 
without one prevenance, living under the same roof with 
me, and never thawing into lukewarm interest." 

" Does he not always follow you about ? — Is he not 
always sitting next to you ?" 

" Precistment! like a tame cat; and I like him for it. 
But you do not mean to assert that that is his mode of 
paying his addresses — hein f 

". I do. Allow me, who have known him from child- 
hood, to assure you that underneath that silent, reserved 
manner, there beats the most passionate heart in the world. 
Still streams, you know, run deepest. His nature is as 
deep as it is silent; so deep, indeed, that though I have 
watched him from childhood, I have not yet sounded the 
bottom. He has the most superb contempt for all the little 
nothings which young men in general conceive themselves 
bound to display for our amusement. He hates affectation ; 
he hates any thing like a demonstration to others of what 
is passing in his own heart. He is shy; and this makes 
him silent and embarrassed. Now when I saw him follow- 
ing you from place to place, sitting by your side, more 
silent to you than to any one else, I was convinced you 
had captivated his timid, passionate heart. I have since 
been confirmed in this." 

" And did he employ you to make the declaration, 
which he dared not make himself ?" 

" Not in the least. He never mentions you. He would 
not whisper his affection to any human being ; his pride 
would forbid it. But, my dear Miss Wilmington, if you 
doubt what I say, observe him closely — see if he is not 
more reserved with you than with any one — yet, he is 
always seeking to be near you." 

R2 



244 EANTHOEPE. 

" And when I have discovered his affection, what ami 
to do with it ?" 

"Not trifle with it — why should you not return it? 
He is worthy of you, and he would be an excellent 
match." 

" He Men ! nous verrons. Apres tout, il rfy a pas du 
danger — pour moi, du moins /" 

And Florence watched him. The result may best be 
read in her own words. 

Florence Wilmington to Caroline Fullerton. 

" My dearest Carry, 

" I have the prettiest bit of intelligence in the world 
to send you. Prick up your sagacious ears to receive it ! I 
am engaged to be married! Actually engaged; have in- 
terchanged vows; and am now busy over my trousseau. 

" But this, as a fact, is too commonplace to deserve much 
attention — though common as the fact is, we women never 
lose our interest in it — but it receives extra eclat from this 
other fact, that I love my husband elect ! Yes, love him ! 
' Very natural too !' will perhaps be your reply.—' Not if 
you knew the man/ I retort. — ' Who is he T you ask. 
And as he is the very last person you would ever guess, I 
may as well relieve your perplexities by naming him. 
Well then — Sir Frederick Hawbucke ! What think you 
of that ? I read the astonishment in your face ; but you 
could not be more surprised at the discovery than I was 
at first. 

" You remember when we were at school together, how 
we used to aspire after some grande passion. Our ambi- 
tion was to inspire an attachment something like that 
inspired by the favourite heroines of our favourite novels 
— a passion disinterested as it was exalted, fiery as it was 



■ 



THE HAWBTJCKES. 245 

profound. How often has that engrossing subject de- 
frayed our conversation ! — how often has it inflamed our 
innocent imaginations! — how often has it filled us with 
delicious dreams! And how bitter was my disappoint- 
ment, when I first awoke from the illusion, to find that in 
real life such passions were impossible; that men were 
insolent and selfish, brutal in their thoughts, though 
polished in their manners; tyrannical, suspicious, and in- 
constant ! The effect upon me was very decided. Vio- 
lent and impetuous as I am, I suddenly changed from the 
little tete exaltee you knew me, to the flirt you may have 
heard of. I treated men as they deserved. 

ft But in the midst of my flirtations I found at last 
a real heroic heart; at the height of my incredulity re- 
specting man's capability of a great passion, I was amazed 
to find that I had inspired one of those deep, silent, tena- 
cious, all-absorbing passions which makes man a timid 
devotee, rather than a coxcomb regarding victory as cer- 
tain. You may conceive how the tete exaltee was intoxi- 
cated with vanity at the discovery ! I do believe I 
fell in love out of pure gratitude and enthusiasm! 
Though as you know my Frederick, I need not tell you 
that he is worth loving for himself, however surprised 
you may be at my beinsj captivated with one so opposite. 
But love delights in antitheses. I should hate a man as 
lively as myself. * 

" When I think of the lovers I have had swearing they 
adored me, — or looking it, it's all the same — and compare 
them with Frederick, I feel that it was my instinct made me 
oialyJZirt with them, because nature had made me for him. 
In none of our novels, I verily believe, did we ever meet 
with such a profoundly passionate nature, subdued as it is 
with such magnificent self-control; and I quite tremble 



246 



EANTHOEPE. 



sometimes when I think of the force of his passion, and 
think how he hid it from the eyes of every one, except 
his aunt ! He is the least demonstrative creature I ever 
met; and I am the most demonstrative creature perhaps 
ever born; so that the antithesis is perfect. But cold as 
he seems to others, I know that all the warmth which 
others expend in enthusiasm, in talk, and demonstration, 
he cherishes in his heart. Conceive how proud I am of 
him, and how happy I am and shall ever be ! 

"Florence Wilmington." 

In due time the marriage of Sir Frederick Hawbucke 
and Florence Wilmington was solemnised, and the "happy 
pair" set out for the wedding tour through Switzer- 
land. 

Their honeymoon was a honeymoon; that is descrip- 
tion enough. They were supremely happy. They were 
proud of each other — loved each other. Nothing like a 
disagreement occurred. Florence, indeed, was occasion- 
ally made very impatient at the imperturbable phlegm with 
which her husband visited all the ravishing scenes which 
lay in their route. Neither mountain nor valley, neither 
glacier nor lake, could wring from him a cry of admi- 
ration. He contented himself with pronouncing the 
Alps " imposing," and Lake Leman " pretty." He was 
always willing to make a fresh excursion ; but was as 
willing* to quit each lovely spot, as he had been to 
go to it. He was never seduced into a touch of ro- 
mance ; never came home fatigued with the emotions 
excited by the scenery. Nothing wearied him, nothing 
bored him, nothing enchanted him. 

For a lively, impressionable girl like Florence, this was, 
it must be confessed, sufficiently provoking. At first she 
attributed it to his undemonstrative depth of feeling; she 



THE HAWBUCKES. 247 

thought he was too much affected to express his emotions. 
But so flattering an interpretation could not resist the 
daily contradiction of his insensibility. He was too mea- 
sured in his language and in his manner, for her to sup- 
pose him struggling with unspeakable emotions. He 
criticised too coldly, to be admiring heartily. 

She was impatient at his insensibility, and showed her 
impatience ; but finally making up her mind that he was 
destitute of all poetry, she ceased to torment him and her- 
self about it. If he could not admire passionately, he 
could love ! That was Florence's consolation. And when 
she compared him with the French and Germans — nay, 
even with the English they met on their journey — when 
she contemplated his manly beauty, and thought how he 
worshipped her, like Hercules spinning with Omphale, 
having laid his strength at her feet, she could not but 
feel a mingled pride and gratitude, which amply com- 
pensated for any reflections on his want of poetry. 

As for Sir Frederick, he looked upon her enthusiasm 
as fresh proof of her superiority over him. He knew 
that he could not understand her; he felt she was a 
creature of another order — that she did not belong to the 
same race as himself; and in his affection believed that 
she belonged to a much more elevated order. 

This continued till they entered Italy. There a change 
took place. There she was as cold, or colder, than he 
had been in Switzerland. She knew nothing of art, 
though fond of poetry. Painting and sculpture she thought 
all very well in the Exhibition. There she saw portraits 
of her friends, there she met a crowd of well-dressed 
people, who went there, not for the pictures, but for the 
Exhibition. Sir Frederick had some taste, and more 
knowledge ; was fond of old paintings and statues ; 



248 EANTHORPE. 

■was not without a smattering of archaeology ; and 
knew the history of the Italian Republics with tolerable 
accuracy. His astonishment may be imagined when 
Florence assured him, that she took no pleasure whatever in 
the " dirty brown things" he called old masters; and that 
she thought Chalon infinitely more agreeable as a painter 
of women portraits than Titian ! 

In Rome it was still worse. While he was either placidly 
examining the wonders of the Vatican, and feeling as 
much enthusiasm as his nature was capable of, or enjoying 
the classical associations awakened by the relics of ancient 
Rome, she was lying on the sofa reading French novels, 
or paying a round of morning visits, just as if she were in 
London. 

He began to suspect that his wife was not the " superior " 
creature he had believed her. This suspicion was slow in 
growing, and was often banished from his mind, but it 
would force itself upon him. He consoled himself, how- 
ever, with the reflection, that her education had not fitted 
her to relish art or antiquities, but that her nature was 
brilliant and poetical. 

These were the only clouds in the serene heaven of their 
felicity ; and they returned to England as much in love 
with each other as when they left it. But the terrible 
mistake was committed of secluding themselves from the 
world, of shutting themselves up in the old manor-house 
of an estate in Wales, where they proposed to live like 
turtle-doves. This at such a time was fatal. For the first 
week every thing went on smoothly enough. Florence 
found plenty of amusement and occupation in visiting all 
the farms, going over the estate, and making excursions 
to the environs. But when the novelty wore off, she be- 
gan to get tired of the monotony, and was annoyed to see 



THE HAWBUCKES. 249 

the placid pleasure lier husband continued to take in 
every detail. Their evenings were horribly dull. The day 
had furnished no subject of conversation, the monotony of 
their lives furnished no food for reflection, no points of in- 
terest; and between them there were too few subjects of 
sympathy to supply the place ; their educations and their 
dispositions had not fitted them for mutually enlivening 
the most depressing of all solitudes — that of a country 
house. The charm of Florence was her liveliness, but she 
could not be lively alone; she needed company, new 
scenes, or new incidents to stimulate her animal spirits. 
As for her husband, he was a damper rather than a stimu- 
lant. His phlegm, which had rendered her impatient on 
their wedding tour, exasperated her in a country-house. 
In travelling she could take refuge in her own enjoyment, 
or in the society of fellow-travellers ; but here she had no 
refuge, and the days were oppressively monotonous. Had 
she not been convinced of the depth of his affection, she 
never could have borne with her husband in such a situ- 
ation; but she was too grateful to murmur ; and he, 
finding her get more serious, mistaking her ennui for 
reflectiveness, actually had the naivete to compliment her 
on the change — to rejoice that she was becoming a serious 
woman ! 

The following letter will convey her feelings at this 
interpretation. 

Florence Hawbuche to Caroline Fullerton. 
" My dear Carry, 

" If you love me, do persuade your husband to 
bring you here for a fortnight or three weeks. I am 
dying of ennui; my heart is ossifying. I, who never was 
alone before in my life, feel that I cannot support this 



250 EANTHORPE. 

solitude. It may be all very well for Frederick; he rides 
out, visits the farms, discusses the state of crops, considers 
improvements, eats, drinks, and sleeps. That suffices for 
his quiet nature; but I perish here. Not a soul in the 
neighbourhood, not a human being to laugh and talk with. 
You will ask me if Frederick is not enough — Alas ! the 
truth must be told — he is an inestimable creature, and that 
is why I cannot estimate him; I respect the depth of his 
nature, but his silence, his undemonstrative, unimagina- 
tive, unimpulsive soul, makes him a most uncompanion- 
able companion. He is clever, clear-sighted, instructed ; 
but his brain is unwieldy, and his pulses scarcely beat. 
I would not hint such a thing to any body but you; and 
I would not have you suspect me of a complaint; but 
I really feel, as I say, a great respect for him, but no sym- 
pathy with him. He doesn't amuse me, in short ; and I have 
been a spoiled child, all my life accustomed to amusement. 
Poor fellow! if he suspected this, it would break his heart, 
I know ; so you may be sure I keep it carefully concealed 
from him. I have often been accused of being a con- 
summate actress; people don't know the value of that art; 
I do. If I were not an actress Frederick would be miser- 
able ! If I could not deceive him into the idea that his 
society is pleasant to me — is sufficient for me — " 

At this moment, she was interrupted by her husband, 

who, opening the door, stood outside with his hand on the 

lock, and said — 

"Did you order the carriage for this afternoon?" 
She started; did not at once reply, but shutting up 

her writing-case in some agitation, turned round her 

head, and then said— 



THE HAWBUCKES. 251 

* I really forget." 

" Shall you want it ?" asked Sir Frederick, now coming 
into the room, and shutting the door. 

" Well — I scarcely know. Yes, I may as well take a 
drive." 

* What are you doing?" 

" Oh ! merely writing a letter." She coloured as she spoke. 

"To whom?" 

" To Caroline Fullerton/' 

u Remember me to her." 

" Certainly." 

Florence breathed again. She thought her husband 
had now quitted the subject, which was peculiarly un- 
pleasant to her ; and imagined he would soon leave the 
room. But he remained looking out of window, to all 
appearance as calm as usual. He made no signs of going 
away; and yet there seemed no reason for his staying. 
He was perfectly silent, motionless. His eyes were fixed 
upon the undulating lawns spread out before him. He 
was abstracted. 

The truth is, that his wife's manner — her agitation 
about the letter — had roused painful suspicions in his 
breast. He was a morbidly jealous man ; and he could 
not resist the inspirations of the demon which now tor- 
mented him. As he stood there gazing out of window, 
he was revolving in his own mind the names of all the 
young men his wife had seen recently ; but he could not 
single out one upon whom to fasten his suspicions. 
And yet wherefore this agitation? Could she really be 
writing to Mrs. Fullerton? If so, why shut up her writing- 
case? — why colour ? 

Florence began to feel marvellously uneasy at her hus- 



252 KANTHORPE. 

band's silent presence. She sat drawing figures on the 
blotting-paper, counting the minutes of his stay. She 
wanted to say something to him, but could think of 
nothing. The silence was as a spell upon her, which she 
could not break. 

Sir Frederick at length moved away from the window, 
and lounged to the other end of the room. He took up 
a volume which was lying on the table : it was the 
16 Dreams of Youth," by his old rival, Percy Ranthorpe. 
Florence was surprised, beyond measure, to hear him 
humming a tune, in a low voice, occasionally interrupting 
it with that sharp breathing which is to whistling what 
humming is to singing. She had heard him do this but 
once before, and that was when he heard of a relation of 
his having been accused of cheating at cards, in one of the 
London clubs. What could it mean now ? He was 
reading and humming. 

" If you have finished your letter, perhaps you will 
stroll with me down the shrubbery ?" he said, in his usual 
tone. 

" Very well," she answered. 

u Have you then finished it ?" 

" No ; — but there is no hurry." 

He was silent. She rose to put on her bonnet. 

" By the way," said he, " give me your letter — I will 
finish it. I want to say a word or two to her." 

" Then why not write yourself ? I shan't allow you to 
spoil my letters. 5 ' 

" Let me see what you have written, at any rate," he 
said, advancing towards her escritoire. 

" Nonsense, my dear," she said, swiftly interposing, "you 
know we women have secrets, which you have no share in." 



THE HAWBUCKES. 253 

" Secrets !" 

" Yes : all sorts of little nothings." 

" Now you pique my curiosity. I must see it." 

" No, no, no ; don't be absurd, Frederick.' 5 

" To oblige me." 

" Nonsense." 

*• I am serious." 

" How can you ask such a thing ! Who ever heard 
the like!" 

" I have a motive." 

16 A motive ! what motive can you have ?" 

" That is my affair ; enough that I have one." 

" You are not jealous, I suppose ?" she said, scornfully. 

" Why not?" he retorted, calmly. 

44 This is too ridiculous !" She was moving from the 
room. 

" Florence, I am not so to be put off. I wish to see 
that letter. No matter what my motive — whether stupid 
curiosity, or ^stupider jealousy — enough that I wish it. 
Will you show it me ?'* 

" No, I will not," said Florence, drawing herself up to 
her full height, and endeavouring to crush him with the 
haughtiness of her indignant look. 

" Beware ! beware ! you are strengthening suspicions. 
I may be foolish to suspect ; but you are mad if you con- 
firm my doubts I" 

"Is it to me you address this insult, Sir Frederick ? 
Is it your wife that you presume to dishonour by sus- 
picion ?" 

" Show me that letter." 

" I will not !" 

44 You fear to do so." 

44 Put what construction you please upon my refusal. 



254 EANTHOEPE. 

I will not stoop to excuse myself." Her face was flushed 
with anger, and her eyes were rilled with tears. 

" Do you not see that your refusal puts the very worst 
construction possible ?" 

" Let it do so. I am above suspicion." 

" Then you brave me?" he said, fiercely. 

" No — I despise you!" And with this insult she 
passed into her bedroom, with the most scornful look that 
her outraged feelings could call up. 

He was stung to the quick ; but remained where he 
stood. Some step was to be taken, but he could not decide 
which. His own conjugal felicity seemed staked upon the 
present quarrel. It was not simply a disagreement be- 
tween man and wife ; it was a struggle for mastery, at the 
very least; and it was probably the detection of some 
clandestine correspondence. 

Had he chosen, he could at once have gone to her 
writing-case and read the letter; but he determined she 
should give it to him. 

Florence had thrown herself upon a sofa and had given 
vent to a flood of tears. She was angry and wretched. 
To be suspected by him — and on such evidence ! So 
newly married, and so bitterly initiated into the petty 
world of bickerings and jealousy ! And where was his 
deep and tender love? where was his quiet idolatry? was 
that also a mockery? was he as cold as he seemed? She 
threw herself back upon the sofa in agony at the thought. 

Half-an-hour afterwards she rose and walked to the 
door of her boudoir. Looking in, she saw her husband 
in the same position as that in which she had left him ; 
his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was whistling 
with a sort of ghastly resolution. She walked up to him, 
saying gently: 



THE HAWBUCKES. 255 

" Frederick, we have been very childish. I am sorry 
for what I said, but you provoked me beyond my power 
of restraint." She held out her hand to him, " You for- 
give me, don't you." 

" If you show me the letter." 

u "What ! still at your suspicions?" 

" Until they are removed." 

She turned haughtily from him; and taking her letter 
from the case presented it to him, saying: 

" Since you persist, read. If its contents displease you, 
it is your own fault. But having read it, burn it; that 
can never go. When next I write about you, it will be 
in another style." And she left the room. 

He took the letter and read it with tolerable sangfroid. 
From her manner he felt convinced that it was not so im- 
portant as he had dreaded; and yet it contained some- 
thing likely to displease him, as she acknowledged. 

It would be difficult to render in words the state of his 
feelings as he laid it down. Had he really loved Florence 
with that passionate depth she believed him to love her 
with, this letter would have driven him wild. But she 
was hopelessly mistaken in her estimate of his character; 
she had exaggerated it beyond all bounds. Because, in 
his shyness and self-control, he had concealed his affec- 
tion for her from every eye, she imagined that his affection 
was unbounded; because she had discovered some warmth 
under the snow, she jumped to the conclusion that it must 
be a volcano. Sir Frederick certainly loved his wife; 
but it was a very measured, reasonable passion — it was 
thoroughly " respectable." He would have made her a 
good husband: kind, considerate, respectful. But the 
idea of this quiet, gentlemanly, phlegmatic Englishman 



256 RANTHOKPE. 

feeling any of the delirium of passion, could only have 
entered the head of the capricious, wilful, and exaggerated 
Florence, who, because she knew that her own nature 
was demonstrative, but not deep, was led to believe that 
his nature was deep, but not demonstrative ! 

It is mostly pride that feels jealousy, seldom love. A 
lover may be jealous, but it is almost always his pride that 
suffers. When a husband ceases to love his wife, he 
does not cease to feel the pangs occasioned by the sus- 
picion of her preference for another : which is enough to 
prove my position. 

When I say, therefore, that Sir Frederick suffered the 
tortures of jealousy, I do not imply that his love for 
Florence was more vehement than before stated, but 
simply that his sensitive pride suffered from a prospective 
jealousy. It was evident that she did not love him. Her 
love was acting. She confessed it. He wearied her; she 
wanted some one to amuse her. That one would be found 
— that one would be preferred ! He felt that, although 
his rival had not yet a name — yet the place in Florence's 
heart was ready for him ! 

" So !" he muttered, "lam no longer a companion — 
I am a tyrant to be nattered with simulated caresses. 
The system of deceit has commenced. She avows it! 
Avows to another that she deceives her husband !" 

His face was deadly pale, and his lips were violently 
compressed, as this last reflection presented itself. Yes, 
there was the pang — that another should know what passed 
in his family — that another should know his wife loved 
him not ! 

What was to be done ? He could think of nothing. 
He could only await the enemy's approach, and then de- 



THE HAWBUCKES. 257 

fend himself. His life, he foresaw, would be a combat ; 
but lie savagely exulted in the idea, that at any rate he 
should not be a cjupe. 

At first he thought of returning at once to town, and 
allowing his wife to resume her accustomed gaieties. There 
she would be amused; there, perhaps, the germs of evil 
would have no leisure to develope themselves; she would 
not be tired of him, and would not cease to love him. 
This, indeed, was the wisest course he could have pur- 
sued — the only course. But his pride intervened — as it 
always does — to inflict its own tortures, rather than allow 
another to ward them off. If he was to owe her affection 
to such means, he would rather be without it. Better at 
once, he thought, to know the extent of his danger, that 
he might prepare for it. Thus resolved, he waded deeper 
into the torrent, that he might know its depth, when there 
was no necessity for him even to wet his ancles ! 

Florence was a good deal puzzled at his manner, when 
she met him, after he had seen her letter: he merely said, 
in his calmest tone : 

" My dear, your complaints of the country are natural 
enough ; but would it not have been better to make them 
to me than to a third party?" 

She had expected a burst of anger; this mildness dis- 
armed; and throwing her arms round his neck, she weep- 
ingly begged to be forgiven. 

The wound seemed healing ; for a few days they were 
together as heretofore — more affectionate, perhaps, if any 
thing. This did not last long ; quarrels succeeded quar- 
rels. She was more and more ennuyee; he was silent, 
sulky. 

A letter from Florence to her mother will, however, 
save me a long description. 



258 RANTHORPE. 

" My dear Mother, — We return to town on the 
17th. I quite pine for that day. I am very unhappy 
here; never thought I could be so wretched. But my 
dear mother will understand what I must endure, when 
she learns that I have been altogether mistaken in the 
character of my husband. My last illusion respecting 
him is gone. I thought, at least, that he adored me, but 
find his love was as common-place and cold as his other 
feelings. 

" Now we are always quarrelling. I don't know who 
begins, or whose fault it is ; but we quarrel and quarrel, 
for all the world like man and wife. Then he is always 
so exasperatingly cool ! One knows not how to get the 
better of him. The other day I tried hysterics, and all 
he did was to take up the newspaper and read it till I 
came to ! Conceive, my dear mother, what it must be to 
have a husband whom hysterics cannot move ! 

" But I shall never finish, if I get on the chapter of his 
vices. They are all comprised in one phrase — he is a 
domestic tyrant ! 

" When we are in town, I sha'n't care. There one can 
amuse oneself; here we are thrown upon each other for 
society — Jest rejouissant ! He will never catch me again 
alone with him in a country house !" 






JEALOUSY. 259 



CHAPTER II. 

JEALOUSY. 

En parlant ainsi, je vis son visage couvert tout-a-coup de pleurs : 
je m'arretai, je revins sur mes pas, je desavouai, j'expliquai. Nous 
nous embrassames : mais un premier coup etait porte, une premiere 
barriere etait franchie. Nous avions prononce tous deux des mots irre- 
parables; nous pouvions nous taire, mais non les oublier. 

II y a des choses qu'on est longtemps sans se dire, mais quand une 
fois elles sont dites, on ne cesse jamais de les repeter. 

Benj. Constant : Adolphe. 

Indeed such love is like a smoky fire 

In a cold morning ; though the fire be cheerful, 

Yet is the smoke so sour and cumbersome, 

'Twere better lose the fire than find the smoke. 

Such an attendant then as smoke to fire 

Is jealousy to love; better want both 

Than have both. 

Chapman : All Fools. 

The Hawbuckes returned to town. Although Florence 
had completely given up her illusion respecting her hus- 
band's love, and with that illusion had, of course, 
vanished all the romance of her attachment to him, she 
continued to show him the proper respect, and kept up at 
least the appearances of affection. No one imagined but 
what they were the most enviable couple in England. 

S2 



260 RANTHORPE. 

Lady Hawbucke's gaiety returned after a very short en- 
joyment of society. Her house was splendid, her enter- 
tainments sumptuous. She passed as thoughtless and 
giddy a life of it as if she had never married,, or had 
never been deceived. 

Sir Frederick saw that she was happier in the society 
of many men than in his; but even his jealousy could 
find no excuse in her conduct with respect to any one 
man. She was indeed the last woman in the world to be 
afraid of, at that period. Her belief in man's affection was 
destroyed. She had renounced the idea of love, and she 
had no inclination to bring disrespect upon herself by 
flirting. No one young man was, therefore, sedulous 
enough in his attentions to justify Sir Frederick's jealousy. 
But this was no alleviation of his condition. He would 
rather have had one rival than a host of rivals. He knew 
his wife was indifferent to him, that she preferred the 
first comer's society to his, and this to so proud a man was 
terribly galling. He endured it all, however, without a 
complaint ; without once indicating, by word or gesture, the 
jealousy which consumed him. 

Just towards the close of the season a young Frenchman, 
M. de la Riviere, excited Sir Frederick's suspicions by the 
assiduity of his visits. In him he anticipated a successful 
rival. M. de la Riviere, though not handsome, was an 
accomplished dandy, and possessed that liveliness of animal 
spirits which so often passes for wit, and is, indeed, superior 
to it in attraction. He was just the man to captivate 
Florence's attention ; the last man upon earth to captivate 
her affections, for he resembled her too much. Sir Fre- 
derick never suspected this distinction ; he saw that his own 
sober nature was not fitted to charm Florence, and very 
easily persuaded himself that M. de la Riviere, from his 



JEALOUSY. 261 

liveliness and frivolity, must have every advantage over 
him 

He endeavoured, by various pretexts, to warn Florence; 
but as he dreaded her suspecting his real motive, he was 
obliged to submit to a defeat in all their conversations on 
the subject; he could bring forward no good, ostensible 
reason. 

"In a word, I do not like him!" he impatiently ex- 
claimed one day at the close of a discussion. 

" Tantpis! I do ; and as he never favours you with his 
company your good opinion is superfluous. Est ce logique f f 
He was forced to hold his tongue. Her last speech seemed 
to him like an open avowal of her encouragement of De 
la Riviere's attentions. 

They went to Baden-Baden — M. de la Riviere was only 
a day or two behind them. He became more and more 
attentive ; but Sir Frederick's utmost vigilance could not 
detect the slightest appearance of any understanding be- 
tween him and Florence. He lived in a perpetual fever 
of expectation. It was the occupation of his life to guard 
his honour from the stain he deemed would inevitably be 
cast upon it, were he not vigilant. Her love was gone, he 
knew ; his own had given place to contempt. But in the 
silent defence of his honour — in the gradual development 
of this internal drama, he felt all the keen delight which 
ever accompanies strong passions. In this state of mind 
every trifle had terrible significance ; every word was com- 
mented on in a hundred different ways; every look was 
interpreted. He stood in presence of a deadly enemy, 
waiting till he should safely strike the first blow, before 
one could be aimed at him. 

They went to Paris — M. de la Riviere followed. One 
evening, at a ball, Florence was dancing with him, quite 






262 EANTHOEPE. 

•unsuspicious of the watchful gaze of her husband, who wa3 
leaning against the door of one of the inner salons. She 
was in high spirits. As the dance concluded, Sir Fre- 
derick, who was watching her narrowly, saw her give a 
slight start, imperceptible to any but a jealous eye, and saw 
the colour mount to her cheek. His heart beat wildly, but 
he preserved the calm nonchalance of his position, rivetting 
his eyes on his wife. De la Riviere bowed and withdrew. 
Sir Frederick saw him glide from the room, to which he 
did not return. Meanwhile, Florence was playing with her 
bouquet, and dexterously contrived to slip into her bosom 
the tiniest note conceivable : a manoeuvre that did not 
escape the vigilant scrutiny of her husband. 

It was observable that Florence lost her gaiety for the 
rest of the evening. During their ride home, she never 
opened her lips, though in general she was voluble enough 
in her quizzing of the company. Thrown back into a 
corner of the carriage, she seemed absorbed in her thoughts. 
The heart of Sir Frederick throbbed fiercely; and a grim 
smile played on his lips ; but he also was silent. The time 
for action was come ! He only waited to see if Florence 
would mention any thing about the letter, which he 
thought, if she were innocent, she assuredly would. Her 
silence was to him convincing proof. 

Was then Florence really in love? No. Yet she re- 
ceived a billet from a young man, which she knew must 
be a declaration, and she had neither virtuously rejected 
it, nor communicated its contents to her husband. The 
reasons are simple. Her morality was somewhat lax — her 
love of any thing romantic very great — her abhorrence of 
" scenes" was profound — and she dreaded her husband. 
Without feeling the least affection for De la Riviere, she 
was nattered at the little bit of romance — she was pleased 



JEALOUSY. 263 

with his audacity — and had she been offended at it, she 
was too well bred to have made a " scene." Her intention 
was to answer the letter by polished coldness in her man- 
ner, which should sufficiently express her sense of his 
forgetfulness of the respect due to her. 

The next afternoon, Sir Frederick astonished De la 
Riviere beyond expression by asking to be allowed to 
join the dinner which he was to give that day at the 
Cafe de Paris to some actresses and their " protectors" — 
un diner dejeunes gens, in fact. 

" With the greatest pleasure, my dear fellow," replied 
De la Riviere, overjoyed. u I should have asked you 
before, but I thought that as an Englishman — un homme 
aprincipes! — you would scout the idea of such very 
decolletee society as ours." 

" I shall be but a poor guest," replied Sir Frederick, 
calmly, " but I want to see this aspect of Paris life. We 
have nothing in England like it. Besides, I have heard 
such praises of your Florine." 

" I feel nattered. But you must not expect great 
things. She is the prettiest actress in Paris — that is why 
she is my chere amie ; but she will not stand comparison 
with your charming English women." 

De la Riviere was highly pleased at the prospect of 
making Sir Frederick a roue. It would be such a weapon 
in his hands. What would Florence say when she heard 
of her husband dining with actresses ! He chuckled prodi- 
giously at the thought. 

Little did he know the fierce, implacable, irresistible 
antagonist he fancied he was leading by the nose ! That 
calm, polished Englishman, whose name he expected to 
dishonour, was accompanying him to a battle-field, not to 
an orgie. The dinner was but an excuse. Sir Frederick 



264 RANTHORPE. 

was too self-possessed to think of quarrelling with De 
Riviere on his wife's account. That would have been 
publishing to the world the very intelligence he meant to 
bury in De la Riviere's death. And he was too cool to 
make such a mistake. 

Thus, while the lively Frenchman thought Sir Frederick 
was walking blindfold to his ruin, he himself thoughtlessly 
walked into the trap laid for him by his supposed dupe. 

The dinner was sumptuous, and boisterous. Four of the 
most piquant actresses of Paris, four of the charming 
young men, whose ambition is to revive the dissolute 
orgies of la Regence, were the guests. Sir Frederick sat 
next to Florine, to whom he paid marked attention. He 
— the shyest, proudest man in London, paid chivalrous 
attention to an actress at the Varittis ! Such is the force 
of passion. 

Florine was prodigiously flattered. She was moreover 
piqued into being fascinating, by the insolent remark of 
De la Riviere. When first Sir Frederick entered the 
room, she was greatly struck with his beauty, 

" Sais tu, mon enfant," she whispered to De la Riviere, 
" que ton milord est fort bel homme." 

" Le fait est qu'il n'est pas mal," replied De la Riviere, 
carelessly. 

" Comme tu dis ca ! Tu n'as pas peur, toi?" 

"Moi? Bah!" 

" Mais je serais tres capable de m'amouracher de lui !" 

"Possible!" 

" Apres?" 

" Tu y seras pour tes frais !" 

" On dirait que je suis laide a faire peur." 

" Non; on dirait tout simplement qu'il est Anglais." 

The little Frenchwoman's vanity was roused. She de- 



JEALOUSY. 265 

termined on the conquest of this supposed impregnable 
fortress — an Englishman's heart. She exerted all her 
coquetries. To the increasing surprise of De la Riviere, 
Sir Frederick became more and more gallant — fixed his 
eyes upon Florine in an ardent manner — paid her extra- 
vagant compliments, which, though they wanted the 
^finesse of the Frenchman's, compensated for that defi- 
ciency by the ardour with which they were uttered. De 
la Riviere became jealous. 

The champagne flowed — the guests became excited — 
the fumes of the wine, and the intoxication of talk had 
begun to operate upon all of them, except Sir Frederick, 
who, though he drank bottle after bottle, seemed quite 
above the influence of wine. The only effect was perhaps 
that of a greater clearness in his ideas. He alone was un- 
absorbed in the merriment around him. He sat there 
drinking and making love, but with his ears open to every 
remark, his eyes catching every change of his enemy's 
countenance : calm amidst the unrestrained licence of this 
orgie, steadily pursuing one object. 

Florine was so excited by the wine and by her success 
with Sir Frederick, that she forgot the presence of De la 
Riviere entirely 5 and almost turning her back to him, en- 
tered into a long and sentimental dialogue in an under- 
tone with Sir Frederick. De la Riviere saw that he was 
placed in a ridiculous light, and catching an interchange 
of glances between two of his friends, which exasperated 
him to the utmost, he resolved to put an end to Florine's 
flirtation. This was not easy. He had swallowed several 
bumpers, which completed his intoxication, before he could 
hit upon a proper plan. At last, with an uneasy attempt 
at banter : 



266 EANTHORPE. 

" Take care, take care, Sir Frederick. You are a novice 
as yet, and will lose your heart before you know it." 

" No great loss," replied Sir Frederick, taking Florine's 
hand, and pressing it tenderly, a and I should be content 
to lose it here." 

"Bravo! bravo!" retorted De la Riviere, ironically, 
" Lovelace himself could not have said a better thing. 
But you forget, — ha, ha, ha ! — that you may turn poor 
Florine's head. She has a passion for Englishmen." 

M Perhaps so," calmly answered Sir Frederick, seeing 
the storm louring. 

"You know I shall be forced to be jealous, — ha, 
ha, ha!" 

" Perhaps so. I dare say you would not enjoy losing 
so incomparable a chere amie." 

"Oh! oh! you think then that I should lose her?" 
retorted De la Riviere, with insolent irony, his eyes flash- 
ing as he spoke. 

The women trembled. The men held their breath. 
" When France presumes to cope with England," replied 
Sir Frederick, with unutterable scorn, " she must lose." 

This sarcasm was doubly insulting : as a Frenchman and 
a lover, it was felt by De la Riviere, who started to his 
feet. The guests all did the same, with the exception of 
Sir Frederick, who sat pouring out a glass of wine with 
the most insolent coolness. All eyes were fixed alter- 
nately upon the two antagonists, in consternation at the 
issue of the dispute. De la Riviere raised his wine-glass 
in the air, and livid with rage, said slowly : 

" England is a nation of shop-keepers and clowns, we 
all know. The mission of France is to instruct the world. 
Whenever she meets with a mal-appris, she gives him a 



JEALOUSY. 267 

lesson in savoir-vivre. She does so now /" and he dashed 
the contents of the wine-glass in Sir Frederick's face. 

Sir Frederick had expected this — desired it; he made 
no effort, therefore, to avoid it; but quietly knocking De la 
Riviere down, as he would have felled an ox, he turned 
to the guests, asked which of them was to be De la 
Riviere's second, and walked calmly out of the room. 

At the Bois de Boulogne they met. Sir Frederick was 
no longer the phlegmatic being his friends had known 
him. A triumph sparkled in his eyes, which explained 
the elastic lightness of his step. He came to the rendez- 
vous more like a bridegroom going to the altar. He was, 
in truth, supremely, savagely happy; he came to kill his 
rival ! 

De la Riviere fired. Sir Frederick staggered. He was 
hit; but soon recovering his position, levelled his pistol, and 
taking deliberate aim, shot his antagonist through the 
head. De la Riviere fell. Sir Frederick walked calmly 
up to him; saw that he had only a few moments to live; 
and as neither the seconds nor the surgeon understood 
English, he addressed these words to the dying man in the 
politest tone imaginable : 

" That is the answer my wife sends to your letter." 

The dying man glared fiercely at him — attempted to 
speak — but his lips only moved feebly, and he expired. 

Sir Frederick's strength was now spent, and he fainted 
from loss of blood. He was borne home insensible. 

His wound was not dangerous. Florence, really 
afBicted, was prodigal in her attentions to her wounded 
husband. She believed, as every one else believed, that 
the cause of the quarrel had been De la Riviere's jealousy; 
but as she had long since ceased to think much of her 
husband's affection for her, and as she was not herself of a 



268 RANTHORPE. 

jealous disposition, it affected her very little that he should 
have been fascinated by an actress. Her attentions to him 
were however horribly misinterpreted by her husband: 
he imagined that she had divined the real cause of the 
duel, and that remorse was the source of her tears — 
hypocrisy the source of her attentions. 

One day, as she sat alone with him, and he reclined 
upon a couch, having nearly recovered from his wound, 
she laid down the paper she was reading, and said, 
laughingly: 

" So your Morine is not inconsolable, I see. The 
Charivari informs us that she has left France for Russia, 
in company with Count O f." 

"My Florine!" he answered, scornfully. 

" Yes, yours. Don't be uneasy, I'm not at all jealous, 
and have known the story a long while." 

He fixed a penetrating glance upon her, and said : 

" Why must you be such a hypocrite, even when you 
must know it is useless ?" 

" Sir Frederick!" she exclaimed, haughtily. 

"Let us understand each other. You know that 
Florine was a mere pretext." 

" A pretext ! and for what, pray?" 

" Our duel." 

" Pray be explicit ; I hate innuendoes." 

" I will, since you force me. You kept up a corres- 
pondence with De la Riviere." 

She sprang to her feet. Then suddenly checking her- 
self, she said scornfully : 

" You are misinformed. I received, indeed, one letter 
from that unfortunate young man." 

" And I took upon myself to answer it," retorted he, 
grimly smiling. 



JEALOUSY. 269 

The whole truth was revealed to her as in a flash. For 
some moments she stood there speechless, bewildered. 
He watched her in silent scorn : he believed her to be 
acting. With inconceivable dignity, she turned from 
him, and swept out of the room. 

From this time all disguise was impossible. They 
mutually read each other's hearts. They hated each 
other, and they knew it. 

Florence would have forgiven any jealousy from a 
lover ; but her husband she knew loved her not, and his 
suspicions were therefore simply debasing. Conscious not 
only of her own integrity, but of the care she had taken 
not to bring the slightest slur upon his name, even by 
flirtation, she was the more insulted at his groundless 
jealousy. On the other hand, the systematic manner in 
which he had avenged an imaginary wrong, seemed to 
her so diabolical, that his presence became odious. 

She proposed a separation. He refused peremptorily. 

" I will have no scandal," he said. 

"Very well, then," she replied, "if you prefer the 
scandal of seeing me surrounded by lovers." 

" That I shall not see. Every man who approaches 
you in that character meets the fate of De la Riviere." 

This was said so coolly, yet with such determination, 
that a shiver ran over her. 

" I give you due warning," he added. " If you flirt, 
I shoot your cavalier; if you compromise my name, I 
shoot you I" 

She bowed her head, and wept. There was something 
in the tone of his voice which gave terrible assurance to 
his threat. She felt that she was in the power of a man 
as cool as he was implacable. The bloom of her life was 



270 RANTHORPE. 

gone ; she felt that a miserable fate awaited her, and in 
conscious impotence she wept. 

It was then that the pangs she had read in Ranthorpe's 
face — as he stood over the prostrate Isola, and passionately 
declared his love — arose before her in mournful reproach. 
She had tortured him without remorse ; she had shaken 
off the recollection of his agony, as an uneasy thought is 
shaken off; she had smiled at his presumption, and 
thought no more of him. But now, in the depths of her 
own affliction, his anguished face was before her eyes, and 
she thought how much happier she should have been as 
his wife, adventurer as he was, than as the wife of the 
jealous and implacable Sir Frederick. He would have 
loved her ! There was deep sadness in the reflection, and 
it seemed to her a punishment for previous recklessness. 

The Hawbuckes returned to London. Every one ob- 
served the change in Florence ; her spirits were invariably 
either sorely depressed or extravagantly elated. Ill health 
was her excuse, and she looked ill enough to make it 
plausible. Sir Frederick was as calm, handsome, and 
dull as ever. 

In this state we must leave the " happy pair," to occupy 
ourselves about the other, and more interesting persons of 
this history. 



THE SURGEON. 271 



CHAPTER III. 

THE SURGEON. 

II vivait jadis a Florence un medicin 
Savant hableur, dit on, et celebre assassin. 

BOILEAU. 

Thou knowest that in the state of innocency, Adam fell; and what 
should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days of villainy? .... If to love sack 
and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked. 

Shakspeare. 

Harry Cavendish, having passed the College of 
Surgeons, had taken a house in Edwardes Square, Kens- 
ington, shaved off his moustaches, renounced his former 
pursuits, and seemed fast settling into a respectable member 
of society. People still thought him "too slang," but 
acknowledged the improvement. It was the turning point 
in his life. He had " sown his wild oats;" and what he 
might hereafter become, depended on the goodness of his 
disposition, and the circumstances which surrounded him. 

Too little heed is taken of this critical period in a 
young man's life. It is a common remark, that the 
wildest youths turn out the best men. Dissipation, though 
an evil, is an evil best got through in youth. If there are 



272 EANTHORPE. 

wild oats to sow, let them be sown early; for bad habits 
later in life become fixed habits, and the rake at thirty is 
irreclaimable. 

Parents are needlessly alarmed at the wildness of their 
sons. Look at the young Cantabs and Oxonians, who, 
after getting deeply into debt, learning more slang than 
Greek, becoming first-rate " dragsmen," or incomparable 
scullers, instead of senior wranglers, are pronounced by 
parents worthless scamps, for whom no hope is pos- 
sible. What do these young men become? Scamps? 
No : good, upright, manly Englishmen ; specimens of the 
finest race in the world — English gentlemen. A few 
turn out badly, but they are the exceptions. Look at 
the mass of English gentlemen — interrogate their youths, 
and see from what youthful extravagances these men 
have emerged to become the first of citizens. 

Is this a defence of dissipation? No; it is simply say- 
ing, that as youth is foolish and exuberant, its acts will 
be folly ; but when youth passes away, it carries with it the 
cause of all this folly, and parents should not despair. 
Instead of despairing, they should observe. There is 
a critical period in the young man's life, when he may be 
turned to any thing that is good. It is then that his 
future profession or avocation will have power to wean 
him from his habits. It is then his character begins 
to consolidate. Of all influences capable of directing 
him into the right path, none is so powerful as that ex- 
ercised by women. If he loves, he is saved. 

Harry was saved by love. Isola's little Walter had 
fallen ill, and the servant, despatched to the nearest sur- 
geon, came to Edwardes Square. As Harry entered the 
room, Isola was suddenly struck with a reminiscence of 



THE SURGEON. 273 

his face. She had only seen him once, and that was on 
the occasion recorded early in this veridical history. She 
had, however, forgotten the occasion, and only remembered 
it after he had left the house. Her repugnance at the idea of 
meeting him again was heightened by her diffidence in 
his skill; a young man who had been such a student, 
could not be a good practitioner, she thought. She was 
on the point of sending for other advice, when the servant 
casually let drop Harry's name. 

Isola started. She had often heard Percy speak of him, 
and speak of him in the highest terms. Could this be the 
same ? She trembled ; but recovering from her fears by 
recollecting that Percy was in Germany, she determined 
to let things take their course. 

That night Walter slept soundly, and the fever abated. 
Harry looked in to see how his little patient was going 
on, as he said; to see once more the lovely girl watching 
by that patient's side, he meant. He found his patient 
recovering, and the fair watcher grateful; she thanked 
him with tears in her eyes. He thought he had never 
seen any one so beautiful. The large lustrous eyes shining 
beneath that queenly brow, and the melancholy sweetness 
which overspread her whole countenance, strangely affected 
him. It was impossible to look upon her without interest. 
She seemed formed out of different clay from ordinary 
women; and there was about her an undefinable some- 
thing which seemed to indicate that her life had a hidden 
romance in it. His visit was a long one. 

His visits were daily longer and longer. Walter im- 
proved rapidly ; and the conversation, which followed the 
medical inquiries and prescription, was to both full of 
charm. To Isola, because she so rarely saw a cultivated 

T 



274 KANTHORPE. 

person, that his society was a luxury. To him, because 
he could have gazed for ever upon that melancholy face, 
and listened to her musical voice. 

Walter at length became so strong, that even Isola's 
anxiety could not create a fear for him, and Harry was 
forced to cease his visits. 






HARRY IS IN LOVE. 275 



CHAPTER IV. 

YES : HARRY IS IN LOVE. 

He brushes his hat o' mornings : what should that bode ? 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 

Ella pelea en mi, y vence en mi, y yo vivo y respire en ella, y tengo 
vida y ser. 

DON QUIJOTE. 

Harry began to have suspicions that he was in love; 
and these suspicions were not idlj grounded. He thought 
of nothing but Isola; dreamt of nothing but her; heard 
the singular intonations of her voice always in his ears, 
had the magic of her beauty always before his eyes. 

He determined to extinguish these sparks, and resolved 
to see her no more. But Byron says, that, 

" When a woman hesitates she's lost." 

Woman is necessary to the truth of the rhythm, but man 
would be equally good for the truth of the aphorism. 
What is hesitation? 

Hesitation is the dalliance with a resolution never in- 
tended to be enforced — a sophistical flattering of our 
weakness — a patronage of reason, which we know 
to be harmless; in a word, hesitation is the prudery of 

T2 



276 EANTHORPE. 

desire — the " and whispering I will ne'er consent, consented" 
of human incongruity. 

"When a man resolves to tear himself from the fascinations 
of a woman, — you may be sure that he is an epicurean, re- 
fusing a luncheon in order not to spoil his dinner. He 
stays away for a day — perhaps two — perhaps a week. He 
returns to her feet, only the greater slave. 

Thus Harry, while vowing to see Isola no more, never 
could take any other walk but that up Nightingale Lane. 
The beauty of the lane was his excuse; which was the 
more suspicious, as he had never noticed it so curiously 
before. The reason also of his always keeping within 
sight of her house, instead of winding further up the lane, 
he never asked himself. 

For two whole weeks, his walks were ungladdened by a 
sight of her, and his irritation at the disappointment in- 
creased every day. He had no right to call, and could 
forge no reasonable excuse. All this while she was shut 
up in her room, endeavouring to make up for the time 
she had lost in attending on Walter; and to be able to 
meet Mr. Cavendish's bill, which she was in daily expec- 
tation of receiving, and which she feared would be large. 

One day, little Walter was swinging on the gate, as 
Harry came up the lane. Harry was delighted; Walter 
had a great fondness for him, and thought him such a 
" nice gentleman." They played and talked together; 
and Harry artfully elicited from him all the particulars of 
Isola's ways of life, and a great many interesting traits of 
her character. 

While playing, they saw her come out of the house 
with a parcel in her hand. Walter ran up to her, exclaim- 
ing, "The Doctor! — the doctor!" who followed, feeling 
rather nervous. She again expressed her gratitude for the 



HAKRY IS IN LOVE. 277 

cure he had effected, and asked him if she might venture 
to take Walter into town with her; he replied, that he 
thought it would do them both good, and recollecting that 
he also was going into town, begged permission to accom- 
pany her. She smiled her acceptance, and passed her 
arm within his. 

As he felt the delicate hand of his beloved gently 
resting on his arm, he experienced a sensation almost 
equal to the first kiss; and he walked along, "as if he 
trod on air. " 

Harry walked and talked ; was fascinated and fascinating. 
The turn of the conversation once lead him to mention 
Ranthorpe. Isola trembled, and was silent for a few mi- 
nutes, and then said : 

" Did you know Mr. Ranthorpe, then ?" 

" Yes," replied he, intimately; "we lived in the same 
house together. Do you know him ?" 

" I — that is — yes, I knew him in his father's lifetime — 
and — don't you admire his poems ?" 

" I admire every thing about him, except — but, to be 
sure, he has cured himself of that error." 

" What— error?" 

" Oh, nothing — nothing — not worth mentioning. Yes 5 
Ranthorpe and I have spent many happy hours together. — 
But here is Mr. Jones standing at his own door." 

They entered, and the subject of conversation was 
changed. When Harry returned home that evening, he 
confessed himself irretrievably in love ! 



278 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE BETROTHMENT. 

And in my heart, fair angel, chaste and wise, 
I love you : start not, speak not, answer not. 
I love you : nay, let me speak the rest. 
Bid me to swear, and I will call to record 
The host of heaven. 

Woman killed with Kindness. 

A CLOSER intimacy had sprung up between Isola and 
Harry : their meetings were favoured by all sorts of pre- 
text. One was furnished by Walter's mother, who wished 
Isola would take Harry's portrait — that she might preserve 
the likeness of the saviour of her boy, she said — that she 
might throw the two together, she meant. 

The subject was broached one evening, and Harry, who 
saw, prospectively, a number of delicious evenings, while 
the portrait was in progress, awaited Isola 's reply with 
considerable agitation. 

" You know," pursued Mrs.Williams, "he saved Walter, 
and we owe him a debt of gratitude." 

" No debt can be more willingly paid than that," said 
Isola. 

" Will it !" he exclaimed, catching her hand in transport. 

Suddenly recollecting himself, he stammered an ex- 



THE BETROTHMENT. 279 

cuse, and walked to the window. This action surprised 
her; and still greater was her embarrassment as she 
saw him turn round again, looking very agitated. He 
left the house after vainly endeavouring to keep up a con- 
versation on commonplaces. 

Isola was thoughtful. The last few minutes had opened 
tracks of thought before untrodden. She had known him 
only three months, and in that time he had completely 
changed from the wild, exuberant, medical student, into 
the gentlemanly, well-informed, enthusiastic, noble-re- 
solved man he was at present. He had lost all taint of 
the medical student. She was struck with the amount of 
alteration. The transitions had been so gradual as to be 
unobserved : the changed man alone was recognised. 

Whence this change? 

Isola was no sophist, and therefore did not " reject with 
modesty" the idea which forced itself upon her, that she 
was the cause — that love for her had brought him, from 
the wandering extravagances of youth, back to his natural 
disposition. She contemplated the probability of this, 
and every thing occurring to confirm it, she acknowledged 
it as a fact. She was not displeased at it. 

Did she then love him ? 

She knew not. Her heart had for so long been shut, 
even to hope, that she had ceased to think of love ; and 
now that she was forced to interrogate her feelings, she 
found them so confused, that no conclusion could be 
drawn from them. That she was delighted whenever he 
came, — that she was fascinated by his conversation, so full 
of enthusiasm and fine feeling, — that she was thoughtful, 
and often weary, when he was away ; — all this she knew, 
and acknowledged. But was this feeling love? At times 
she thought it was : at others she compared it with her 



280 RANTHOEPE. 

love for Percy, and a curious difference was percep- 
tible. 

This perplexity increased each evening as he sat for his 
portrait : each night she went to bed with a surer feeling 
that he loved her; but whether she felt for him the affec- 
tion of a wife, she could not answer. 

One evening, as they sat talking about their early years, 
her voice faltered. She said that painful recollections 
always prevented her indulging in long retrospections. 
She paused — she knew not what she was about to utter, 
and dreading lest she should commit herself, she stopped 
abruptly. 

Harry was breathless. She walked to the window, and 
pulled aside the curtains. The young moon shone full 
upon her face; she gazed on it in silence. There she 
stood, trembling with vague, voluptuous, yet oppressive 
thoughts, which crowded on her brain. 

" The holy time was quiet as a nun. 
Breathless with adoration." 

She gazed upon the scene, unconscious of its beauty; but 
her thoughts were not uninfluenced by it. She was in a 
waking dream; the present and the past were dead, and 
she was sailing down the sunny streams that intersect the 
dreamland of the future. She was unconscious of Har- 
ry's presence. He sat gazing at her with aching eyes, 
rapt in adoration. 

Her quick thoughts gave a sudden flushing to her 
cheek, and a sparkle to her eye; her lips were parted, as 
by an eager breath, and a smile of ecstacy ran over them 
from time to time. Her bosom panted quickly; she was 
in a state of great nervous excitement, yet moved not, but 
stood there in the moonlight, like a statue, gazing on the 



THE BETROTHMENT. 281 

moon, et that with so wan a face" rolled upwards through 
the sky. This continued only a few minutes, but those 
minutes were as years in thought. Her smile then died 
away ; her eye became meaningless ; and a long deep sigh 
told that her vision was at an end, and that she had fallen 
from the clouds to earth again. 

He rose and walked up to her. She turned towards 
him with a faint smile, and extended her hand to him. 
He took it in both of his, and pressed it in silence. She 
returned the pressure. 

" Miss Churchill — Isola — do you read my heart?" 

" I do," she answered, again pressing his hand in that 
simple, truthful manner which characterized her; " but 
I am unworthy of it — I cannot give you in return the 
same devout affection — mine is a widowed heart." 

She then related her past history. She told him of 
her early love, of Percy's coolness, of his ambition, and 
finally of his inconstancy. She told him how her heart had 
been sacrificed to the allurements of a coquette. "Woman- 
like, she laid all the blame upon herself, excusing every 
way her lover. 

Harry was speechless. He knew nothing of Percy's 
love for Isola. Such conduct from his best friend to one 
he most loved in this world, completely overcame him. 
He drooped his head upon his breast, and gave way to 
sorrow. A long silence ensued. 

" Isola," said he at length," youhaveindeed been wronged 
— but you have loved Percy — perhaps love him still." 

u No," she said, shaking her head sorrowfully; ei I do 
not love him — I have long been cured of that." 

" Indeed; then you — ?" 

u I can offer you only a widowed heart — but that is 




282 RANTHOKPE. 

yours. I have been frank with you — I have been explicit, 
because on such occasions any misunderstanding is the cause 
of misery. I do not love you as I have loved. I . . . esteem 
you; you are dearer to me than any one else in the 
world; but — but — -" 

« But what?" 

" I have one condition to affix; that is one twelve- 
month's delay." 

" Oh ! why delay our happiness ?" 

" In order to secure it ; not from mere caprice, believe 
me. Listen. As I told you, I have great affection for 
you; but whether as one dear friend loves another, or 
whether as a wife should love her husband, I know not, 
I have interrogated my feelings very, very often, but 
cannot get a clear, decisive answer. All that I can pro- 
mise, therefore, is to be a faithful wife and companion. 
I cannot promise to return your affection. Duty is in our 
power; not so feeling. It is very important to our future 
happiness that you should be convinced that you would 
be contented with a widowed heart ; it is important that, 
all the obstacles to your love being removed, you should 
render it amenable to reason, and calmly judge whether 
our union would be productive of the happiness you seek. 
In less than a year you may repent — " 

" Impossible !" he interrupted. 

" I do not say you will, but you may ; it is well to 
guard against such things. If therefore on this day twelve- 
month you still desire our union, I promise to be yours ; 
if before that you have reflected on all circumstances, and 
have come to the conclusion that your happiness would be 
uncertain without my love, then will we be as brother and 
sister, and never mention the subject again." 



THE BETROTHMENT. 283 

" But I am convinced; how could I cease to love you?" 

"No; I am inflexible. A year's delay to procure a 
life's happiness, is surely a small sacrifice." 

" I will not oppose your wishes, dearest love; but be 
assured that then, as now, as ever, it will be my pride, my 
rapture only to call you mine." 

And thus they were affianced. 



284 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE BIRTHDAY. 

Lass diesen Blick 
Lass diesen Handedruck dir sagen 
Was unaussprechlich ist. 

Faust. 

Ranthorpe remained two years in Berlin, supporting 
himself by giving English lessons to the young ladies of 
the upper classes, and devoting all his leisure to hard 
study. He lived a solitary life, but on the whole, a happy 
one. He knew that he was preparing himself for the great 
combat with the world, and determined this time not to 
fail from inconsiderate haste. Many were his delicious 
reveries when rambling through the wild Thiergarten, 
which in winter, when covered with snow, looks so po- 
etically desolate, and which in summer, forms a shady 
retreat. There, amidst its " leafy solitudes," he meditated 
on the vexed problems of philosophy, or scrutinized the 
mysteries of art. There he was supremely happy. 

He then went to Dresden, where he stayed some months 
in almost daily communion with the master-spirits whose 
immortal pictures grace the museum, and when he knew 
by heart every tint of the Sistine Madonna and the Seggiola 



THE BIRTHDAY. 285 

of Raphael — the Maddalena, Notte, and St. Sebastian 
of Correggio — the Venus, and the Christo del Moneta of 
Titian — the pomp and magnificence of Paul Veronese, 
and the varied power of Rubens, Ranthorpe thought of 
returning to London. He had a tragedy in his portfolio, 
such as his most rigorous criticism could not throw any 
doubts on, and with that he hoped to achieve a name in 
literature. 

He returned; went through the usual harassing preli- 
minaries, which need not again be described, and at length 
had the satisfaction of seeing his labours crowned with 
success. His tragedy was an extraordinary work, and 
startled the public into enthusiasm. A great tragedy it 
was not; if we understand by the term, such a work as 
our magnificent dramatic literature has entitled us to ex- 
pect from every ambitious aspirant. But though not 
proof against severe scrutiny, it had incontestible merits : 
power, passion, rapidity, and beautiful poetry. It drew 
crowds to the theatre nightly; it was read by every one; 
reviewed everywhere ; was played in the provinces ; and, 
in short, was a triumph. Ranthorpe from that day took 
his place amongst the literary men of England. 

He had, in part, at least, realised the dreams of his 
boyhood. But although a proud consciousness of owing 
his success solely to his own energy and genius, from time 
to time made his heart beat with satisfaction, yet, on the 
whole, he felt no such delight as his boyish expectations 
had pictured. Success, after all, is not so gratifying as 
people imagine ; while failure is horribly depressing. 
Where then is the poet's reward? In activity — in crea- 
tion — in the healthy employment of his faculties. There, 
and nowhere else, is his reward ! 

Ranthorpe might of course easily have been made a 



286 RANTHORPE. 

" Lion" again — a " Lion," too, roaring in a far wider den 
than before. But lie had seen through that folly. He 
was not a second time to be seduced. All invitations 
whatever were steadily refused. He was to be seen at the 
houses of a few friends — people whom he esteemed and 
admired in spite of their position, were it high or low — 
but he was " to be had," as the phrase goes, nowhere. He 
offended a number of people, who accused him of affecta- 
tion — of wishing to making himself of consequence — but 
he never moved from the path he had chalked out for 
himself. He led a quiet, studious, meditative, melancholy 
life. 

Yes, melancholy, for he had not forgotten Isola. His 
success seemed robbed of its charms, because she was not 
near him to share it. In his quiet, studious life he pined 
for the sunshine of her presence. 

And Isola also thought constantly of him. She and 
Harry had been twice to see his play — had read it aloud 
to each other — and he often found her weeping over it. 
She knew it by heart; and yet there seemed a fascination 
in the page, which nothing could wear off. The heroine 
pretty much resembled her in character; so that when 
she read the impassioned love passages, she seemed to hear 
Percy uttering them to her : and her eyes would fill with 
tears of exquisite pain. 

Harry grew fretful and uneasy. The calm delicious 
hours he had been accustomed to spend with Isola were 
now converted into jealous watchings of her counte- 
nance. She often spoke of Ranthorpe; and, although 
nothing betrayed to him a renewal of her former love, nor 
even a wish to meet Percy again, yet there was no con- 
cealing the very great interest she continued to take in 
his welfare. Every mention of his name jarred upon 



THE BIRTHDAY. 287 

Harry's feelings ; every inquiry seemed to him tantamount 
to a wish for his presence. He asked her one day to con- 
sent to see him, in order that this suspense might cease. 

" No," she replied. " It is better as it is : it is better for 
all sakes that I should not see him ; at all events till I am 
married. I could not see him : it would open wounds now 
healed ; it would lead to explanations as painful as they 
must be useless." 

It was in vain that she declined seeing him. Harry 
saw too plainly that her thoughts were constantly in that 
direction. A painful sense of dread oppressed him : dread 
of losing her he best loved upon earth. He was willing 
to accept of her widowed heart : it would have made him 
the happiest of men; but her estranged heart he could not 
accept. 

After many struggles with himself — after many plans 
laid down and broken as soon as made, he determined that 
his fate should be decided : he determined that Isola and 
her lover should meet again, and that if they loved each 
other still, he would relinquish his claim. If they no 
longer loved, all jealousy would be at an end. 

" I forgive your jealousy," she replied, "it is most 
natural ; but believe me it is groundless. Percy no longer 
loves me, It is impossible for me not to feel intensely 
interested in him. I cannot forget that my existence was 
once bound up in his. I cannot forget all the delicious 
associations of the past; — nor all the pangs which grew 
out of them. But do not let me see him. I have pleasant 
thoughts of him, for I think of him as he was. I have 
not seen him since that fatal day — the sight would awaken 
feelings — painful feelings, which you, dearest," she added 
placing her hand affectionately on his, " have caused me 
to forget.' ' 



288 KANTHOKPE. 

" Bless you for those words !" he cried, in transport. 

" Look at the drawing I have just finished," she said, 
holding one up to him, and anxious to change the cur- 
rent of his thoughts. " Are you pleased with it?" 

" Mr. Herbert will be enchanted!" 

" Never mind others — what do you think — does it quite 
satisfy you?" 

" I think it exquisite — as every thing you touch must 
be. But now I look into it — you really have surpassed 
yourself! Those trees glistening with rain drops, look 
so cool ! Those shrubs and the grass, so fresh and green, 
have just the appearance of a recent shower; and I seem 
to smell the keen perfume crushed from them by the rain. 
That little rivulet is charming, as it runs along there under 
those lush weeds, and turns down by the stile, on which 
that boy is sitting in perfect summer contentment, fling- 
ing into the water the pieces of stick he breaks off from 
the hedge.— I long to be in the rogue's place — with some one 
by my side." 

" I'm so happy! I have taken such pains with this 
picture. Look close at it, and see if you cannot trace its 
meaning." 

"The clouds rolled away in the distance, and fringed with 
gold — the clear blue sky — glistening, radiant flowers — " 

tl My past life is in those clouds," she added, gravely, 
4 * my present happiness is in the sky and flowers. That 
boy is "Walter; that rivulet is the stream of our happy 
days. The picture is for you, dearest." 

"Forme,"lsola?" 

" Yes, to-day is your birth-day — this is my remem- 
brance of it." 

"So it is. — I had quite forgotten it. And how am I 
to thank you?" 



THE BIRTHDAY. 289 

" By being happy." 

" I am supremely so." 

" Not while you are jealous." 

"lam so no longer. — Isola," said he, after a pause, 
11 in four months hence you will be mine : can you not 
shorten the time?" 

" I told you to be happy," she said, laughing, " and you 
promised obedience. Is this the way you fulfil promises?" 

There was no resisting this. Harry felt that she loved 
him. True, her love was very different from the eager 
passion which devoured him; true, she was calm, pensive, 
melancholy, though affectionate, with the love more of a 
sister ; but still she did love him, she was affectionate, and 
she loved no one else. She had made him comprehend 
her feeling for Percy. 

"Remember," she said, " that although the wrong he 
did me almost broke my heart, yet it was the deed of 
a day, it was only one action; but the years of hap- 
piness, and constant love, which I passed with him before 
that, — the 

"... little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. 

which endeared him to me — these I cannot forget. If I 
remember the suffering he has caused me, I also remember 
all the pleasure. I love him for that pleasure : his image 
is the central figure of a world of sweet associations. But 
were I to see him now, he would only recal dark and 
bitter thoughts, and rip up wounds that bleed no longer." 

" Sister Isola, 5 ' said little Walter, bounding into the 
room. 

"Well, my pet?" 

" Will you go with us to Richmond to-morrow?" 
U 



290 BANTHORPE. 

" No, dear, I have work to do." 

" Do you like work better than play?" 

"No," she replied, laughing, and patting the inge- 
nuous face that was turned upwards to her; "but, as I 
often tell you, Walter, I must work, and very hard too, to 
get my bread." 

" You always say that," said the child. " You seem 
to think bread more valuable than pudding /" 

Isola caught him in her arms, and stifled her laughter 
with kissing the young philosopher. 



THE DEE AM. 291 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE DEEAM. 

Oh ! come viva in mezzo alle tenebre 
Sorgea la dolce imago e gli occhi chiusi 
La contemplavan sotto alle palpebre ! 
Oil come soavissimi dhTusi 
Moti par l'ossa mi serpeano I oh come 
Mille nelT alma instabili, confusi 
Pensieri si volgean ! 

Giacomo Leopardi: Canti. 

Quando in snl tempo che piu leve il sonno 

E piu soave le pupille adombra, 

Stettemi allato e riguardommi in viso 

H simulacro di colei che amore, 

Prima insegnommi, e poi lasciommi in pianto. 

Ibid. 

It is a bright morning in spring. The lark is up, and 
cutting through the sky, pouring forth his joy in such 
a gush of song, that the rapid notes seem to trip each other 
up in eagerness of utterance. The trees and grass are 
spangled with the morning dew; all is bright, fresh, and 
exhilarating as the thoughts of youth. 

Isola rises from her bed with slow> reluctant grace ; for 
she has passed the night in dreams of ecstasy, from 
which it was a pang to awake. 

u2 



292 RANTHORPE. 

She dreamt that she was in a thick, entangled wood. 
She was plucking the woodbine, and the fragrant flowers 
that grew up to her hand. Suddenly a rustle of the 
leaves startled her, and turning, she beheld Percy at her 
side. He was pale and care-worn ; a strange light shone in 
his eyes ; a radiant smile played round his lips, and around 
all his person there was a gleam of glory. She held out 
her hand to him in silence; in silence he took it, and 
gazed wistfully into her eyes. 

" Do you forgive me?" said he at last. 

His voice seriously affected her ; it seemed like a stream 
of warm music; it seemed like music, and yet it seemed to 
pour along her nerves trembling and warm. She could not 
answer him. 

He spoke again, and she found herself in his arms, 
thrilled with his kisses. 

And they wandered through the wood, plucking 
the loveliest flowers, breathing the tenderest vows, and 
planning events for the future. Their hearts were indis- 
solubly united in one delicious feeling. The pale moon 
smiled upon them through the enwoven branches ; the 
breeze sighed mournfully amongst the leaves, and an- 
swered to their sighs; they walked on air; a spirit seemed 
to permeate their beings^ filling them with new life; and 
the soft murmur of each other's voice stirred their hearts 
strangely. 

She awoke, and the dull white curtains met her en- 
chanted gaze ; she awoke, and her lover was afar. She en- 
deavoured to sleep again, that she might feel the rapture 
of her dream ; but in vain. Pensive and sad, she rose, and 
began her toilet. 

She, nevertheless, had dreamed of him, and could 
again conjure up that vision, though knowing it to be a 



THE DREAM. 293 

vision. She had dreamed of him, and that dream haunted 
her like a passion. Who does not know this feeling? 
Who is there that has not spent some blissful moments in 
a dream, with perhaps some person they have never spoken 
to, but of whom they continue to think, on waking, with 
unspeakable tenderness? 

It is one of the subtle mysteries of our nature ; it is one 
of the manifold, unappreciable influences which mould 
and modify the condition of the mind, how, or why, we 
know not. It is one of those things, trivial in their origin, 
but important in their effects, which make up that which 
{if I may venture on the phrase) I would call the atmos- 
phere of life : for we breathe in it, we live by it. 

More good will is generated in happy dreams than any 
one is aware of. If a coolness separates two friends, let 
one dream pleasantly of the other, and his heart will yearn 
for reconciliation. If lovers quarrel, a dream unites them 
again. The mind invests the reality with the splendour of 
its own imagination; it refuses to believe the object less 
good or great, than it has known it in those brief moments 
of communion. I have known a dream hang about me 
for days together; exciting me to actions which cooler 
moments have condemned. Who, when he thus in- 
terrogates his own experience, will wonder at the quick 
credulity, which, giving forms to its conceptions, believes 
the voices which resounded in a dream, were voices 
from above ; warnings or counsels addressed to no mortal 
sense, but infused into the immortal soul ? 

Haunted by her dream, Isola was suddenly shaken by 
the sound of Percy's voice in the adjoining room, calling 
her to come to him. It was some moments before she 
could persuade herself that it was not an illusion; but his 
impassioned accents once more thrilled her with delight, 



294 EANTHOEPE. 

and rushing into the room, she fell into his arms, uttering 
a scream of joy. 

O joy ! O rapture ! It was indeed Percy; — it was in- 
deed her lover ! It was her dream realised ! This was no 
vision; she felt it was not, as she felt his heart heating be- 
neath her own, and his breath mingling with her own. 
They 

" Saw each other's dark eyes darting light 
Into each other — and beholding this, 
Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss." 

And thus they rested in each other's arms : speechless, 
because their hearts were full, and because both feared to 
break the charm. Much had they suffered since their last 
embrace ! — fretful sorrow and sick disappointment ; but 
here they were again united, with hearts untamed by sor- 
row, crowding an eternity into a kiss ! 

They were both much changed in appearance since 
their last meeting. Suffering, illness, and study, had 
thinned his cheek, and given a more spiritual delicacy to 
his brow. He had, moreover, changed from a boy into a 
man ; and though perhaps scarcely so handsome, he had 
grown more interesting. Suffering, and brooding medita- 
tion, had also touched with melancholy Hues the noble 
brow and meaning-full mouth of Isola, robbing her of some 
of that naive, youthful charm which had so exquisitely tem- 
pered her august and queenly bearing. You could not 
look upon her without at once divining that she had 
long been a prey to some silent sorrow; but you also 
saw that if she had struggled, she had gained the victory 
at last. 

She took his head between her hands, and gazed in- 
tensely at him, to convince her exulting heart that his 
presence was not a vision. She twined her fingers in his 






THE DREAM. 295 

silky hair with a sort of impatience, and gazed upon 
his lovely face upturned to hers in ardent adoration. He 
pressed her to him, and kissed her luxuriant hair which 
fell in disorder over her shoulders, for she had not stopped 
to bind it up. And it was not till their first transports 
were over that he became conscious of not having asked 
her forgiveness of the past. He began to stammer his 
excuses : 

" Dearest Percy," she said, " do not recal the past — 
not even to weep over it, as an error. You need no 
excuses — it is enough for me to see you here, to feel your 
hand, to tremble at the sound of your voice — oh ! do not 
look back on the past !" 

" Blessed one I" he exclaimed, " you forgive me then? 
you give me again that heart which this time I shall know 
how to prize? You are again my love — my wife ?" 

m Wife !" she shrieked, starting up, and recoiling from 
him. 

i( Are you not my Isola ?" 

" O ! it was a dream — and I am thus awakened!" 

She fell senseless at his feet. 

Alarmed and surprised, he took her in his arms, and 
raised her to the sofa, chafing her hands, and kissing her 
lips. He called on her, implored her to answer him, but 
she heard him not. 

" I have killed her," he frantically exclaimed. 

A deep sigh heaved her breast, and she slowly opened 
her eyes. He was so overjoyed at this sign of life that 
he nearly stifled her with kisses. She pushed him from 
her, with a convulsive effort, exclaiming : 

" Percy ! Percy ! — do not touch me — I am another's I" 

"Another's ?" said he, puzzled yet alarmed. 



296 RANTHORPE. 

" Oh! yes," she sobbed, " it was a dream — a dream! 
Percy, I am engaged" 

" Impossible — you ?" 

"Too true!— -too true!" 

A long silence ensued. 

She gave way to her feelings of despair, and he to his 
of resentment. When he heard her pronounce those ter- 
rible words, he felt it as an insult. She was thinking of 
poor Harry; thinking of her folly, in believing that her 
love for Percy was dead, because it was silent. 

" And you are engaged," he said, bitterly. 

" Alas! — alas ! — but hear me, Percy, before you judge 
me." 

"No; it is enough for me to have lost you," he an- 
swered, rising from his seat. " I cannot reproach you — I 
ought to have expected this — I deserved it." 

" Percy," she said; and he could not resist the plaintive 
reproachfulness of her tone ; so reseating himself, he lis- 
tened to the history of her life since their last meeting up 
to the evening of her betrothment. 

" He offered me his hand," she continued, iC as he had 
given me his heart, frankly, but humbly. He knew I did 
not love him : he knew I loved another : still he offered me 
his hand. My position was perilous ; I had lost you, as I 
thought, for ever. I had no friends. He, above all men, 
was the one I most esteemed — most loved : loved with a 
pure and lasting affection, quite capable of happiness in 
marriage. In his affection I saw a home of peace and 
content — and therefore did I pledge him my hand — I 
never repented it till now!" And she buried her face 
within her hands. 

This simple tale of a suffering he himself had caused, 



THE DKEAM. 297 

oppressed Ranthorpe with a dreadful sense of his treacherous 
conduct; and he felt that he deserved to lose this priceless 
treasure, as Harry deserved to win it. He was stupified 
with this thought; he was as one crushed to earth, without 
power of escape; he felt that the present moment must 
decide his fate, and he felt that the decision would be un- 
favourable. 

Tears came to his relief, and he wept like a child. 
They wept together in silence, broken only by their 
sobs. They were both devouring their misery — both 
driving deeper in, with savage hands, the barbed arrows 
of remorse. 

And yet she loved him ! Could he, then, renounce her? 

"You cannot — shall not be another's!" he at length 
exclaimed. " You are mine — mine only !" 

She sobbed, but uttered no word. 

"You love me, Isola — do you not? Answer me: is 
not your heart mine? — your soul mine?" 

Her sobs became hysterical, but still she spoke not. 

" Isola, dearest Isola, I implore you, answer me. Tell 
me that you do not love me, and — I will leave — leave you 
at once." His voice faltered, but she trembled more be- 
neath its tones, than he beneath his anguish. 

She was silent. A sudden ray seemed to streak across 
the darkness of her soul, revealing there a duty, and a 
glimpse of hope. The duty of fulfilling her vow to 
Harry commanded her to prevaricate with Percy. " If 
he thinks I love him still," she thought, " I am lost." 

She raised her head, and looked him steadfastly in the 
face. 

" Isola, decide my fate. Is there another tie besides 
your vow which binds you to him?" 



298 RANTHORPB. 

"There is!" she answered earnestly, glad of being 
able thus to escape a falsehood. 

His lower jaw suddenly fell, like that of one smitten 
by death. He gazed upon her with a look of wonderment 
and sorrow, and sighing deeply, faltered out : et May you 
be happy — very happy !" — and moved towards the door. 

As he placed his hand upon the door, he was startled 
by one convulsive sob, that seemed to burst her bosom — 
he turned round, and saw that she had fallen back upon 
the sofa, prostrate with grief, her face hidden in her 
hands; her sobs thrilled him, and he sighed heavily. She 
looked up, and beheld him gazing on her in inexpressible 
rapture. 

" Percy !" she murmured, and closed her eyes again. 

" Yes, your Percy — for ever yours ! We will part no 
more ! — we will grieve no more ! You love me ! You 
are mine ! — say that you are mine ! — say that you will 
not foolishly condemn us both to everlasting sorrow — " 

ie Percy, I have pledged my hand to another — I must 
and will fulfil my vows." 

" No, no, no — your vows are mine. I have a prior 
claim — a stronger, deeper claim : I have your heart ! Oh ! 
think well, Isola, before you act, and think upon the con- 
sequences of that act ! You love me — think of that ! Think 
of your lot, joined to one, and loving another ! Think of 
all the treasures of your life thus wasted, all the dearest 
feelings of your nature crushed, withered, turned back 
upon themselves. Oh ! think what it is that you are 
about to do !" 

" My duty !" she replied firmly. " I may be miserable 
— I shall be so — but I shall be innocent — my conscience 
will be light." 



THE DREAM. 299 

" Light? Will not my fate burden it? will not my 
despair blacken it? Will not your own grief trouble it? 
You are mad — Isola, I love you! Is not that claim 
enough — does not your conscience bow to that? Are 
you not mine — mine in heart and soul? Have I not a 
husband's love, and shall I be debarred of a husband's 
right? Isola, I love you. Can he say as much? Has lie 
loved you so long? Has he been tried in the fire of 
temptation. Has he known sickness and sorrow, and 
pined for your presence as the healing angel? Has he 
been influenced by adulation, intoxicated by vanity, 
dazzled by splendour, enervated by luxury — and, after 
all, returned to you and poverty, content to pass his life 
by your side? Isola, I love you ! I have loved you from 
my boyhood — I loved you in my manhood: you, and you 
only ! In a moment of distorted ambition I was deluded by 
a coquette. She dazzled me, she threw a mist before my 
eyes, that hid me from myself. This moment of delirious 
error I have bitterly repented; I have wept over it — I 
have borne the stings of remorse — but I have loved you 
through all, and have lived but in the hope of being par- 
doned by you." 

Isola continued to weep in silence ; at length she said : 
u Percy, I did not need your words to picture what my 
fate would be, away from you. I felt it from the first, 
and, feeling it, resolved to bear it. I have borne misery 
ere now — worse, indeed, than any yet in store for me — 
and my greatest comforter in that misery was he who is 
to be my husband. I cannot forget his kindness ; I 
cannot in wantonness bring sorrow to his hearth, who 
never brought it to that of others. No : I may have to 
bear a heavy weight of suffering — I will pray to God to 
give me strength to bear it." 



300 EANTHOEPE. 

" And you sacrifice my happiness — sacrifice your own." 

" He loves me — Has no other thought — no other hope, 
than that of calling me his wife." 

Ranthorpe stamped with rage. 

"Do not ask me to commit a crime" she continued, 
" for it would be one to wrong him" 

" You are mad !" he shrieked. 

"No, Percy, lam miserable! But God will support 
me. I have devoted myself to the happiness of another; 
for that I live." 

Ranthorpe looked at her, bewildered, awed by her 
calmness. That simple girl, covering a breaking heart 
with an heroic firmness, seemed to him so sacred in her 
grief, and in her virtue so sublime, that his own selfish 
promptings were silenced. Her deep voice was unfalter- 
ing — her manner fixedly calm; but the anguish which 
distorted her haggard face told terribly of the struggle 
she had endured. At all times there was a grandeur in 
the simplicity and majestic repose of her manner; but 
now, when the whole strength of her nature was sum- 
moned to vanquish the most fearful struggle that a loving 
woman could endure, she struck Ranthorpe with a sense 
of awe he could not overcome. 

Gazing at her, he plainly saw that she might regret, 
but would never waver. Like the Indian wife about to 
ascend the pyre, and join her husband in the grave, she 
might regret the sacrifice of this fair world, but would 
not flinch from the accomplishment of her duty, because 
duty to her was more sacred than life was fair. Majestic 
in her sorrow, as in her motives, Ranthorpe then, for the 
first time, felt the immensity of his loss. 

He took her hand with mournful tenderness, and kissing 
it with deep respect, said : 



THE DREAM. 301 

" Isola, I deserve to suffer — my wickedness has brought 
us to this strait — it is just that I should rue it. Your own 
great heart dictates to you this sacrifice, and what your 
heart dictates must be right. May it enable you to bear 
the burden lightly ! Be happy ! — I do not say forget 
me — but think of me as one who henceforth is to you a 
brother. We shall meet no more. But we shall be present 
to each other in thought." His voice became more and 
more husky as he proceeded, but making a sudden effort, 
he said, " God bless you, Isola, — God bless you." 

And she was alone. 

Sick at heart she sank upon a chair. She would have 
recalled him and unsaid her words — but she had not 
strength. A dizzy faintness overcame her: wild, be- 
wildering, tumultuous thoughts oppressed her, and she 
could not speak. 

When Harry came in, a short while after, he found her 
delirious. A brain fever, for some days, at least, kept her 
from her sense of desolation. 



\ 



302 KANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

WAKING DREAMS AND WAKING SADNESS. 

I did hear you talk 
Far above singing ! After you were gone 
I grew acquainted with my heart ! and search d 
What stirred it so: alas! I found it love. 

Beaumont and Fletcher: Philaster. 

The sweet thoughts, the sure hopes, thy protested faith will cause 
me to embrace thy shadow constantly in mine arms, of the which by 
strong imagination I will make a substance." 

Lyly: Alexander and Campaspe. 

Bello il tuo manto, o divo cielo; e bella 
Sei tu, rorida terra. Ahi di cotesta 
Infinita belta parte nessuna 
Alia misera Saffo i numi e l'empia 
Sorte non fenno. 

GiacomoLeopardi: CantL 

When Isola was sufficiently recovered, she told Harry 
vaguely of having seen Ranthorpe (which Harry knew, as 
it was he who had informed Ranthorpe of her retreat), 
and that they had " met for the last time." Then "begged 
him never to refer to the subject again. From the manner 
in which she spoke, he was completely deceived as to the na- 
ture of their interview. He believed that Ranthorpe's pre- 
sence had only recalled a poignant sense of his treachery; 



WAKING DREAMS AND WAKING SADNESS. 303 

and that probably they had come to bitter altercations on 
the subject. 

But she seemed shattered by the blow. She rarely 
smiled, and never laughed. She was perpetually plunged 
in reverie, from which she aroused herself by a long and 
painful sigh. 

Poor Leo was neglected ; but with the marvellous saga- 
city which dogs display, he seemed to understand her 
grief, to sympathise with it, and respect it. His large 
eyes were constantly fixed on her in mournful lovingness, 
and he would gently lick her hand as if to reassure and 
comfort her; but she seemed seldom aware of his pre- 
sence. 

Harry, deceived by her words, never interpreted these re- 
veries aright, and seldom remarked them. He knew that 
she was melancholy — he knew her wounds were bleeding, 
and that time alone could staunch them. 

She seldom wept, but the colour never rose into her 
ashen cheek ; and there was an inward look about the eyes 
which betokened a complete withdrawal from the outward 
world, to contemplation of the inward. She lived, indeed, 
no longer with her senses. Her days were passed in re- 
veries; her nights in fantastic dreams. Her language 
assumed a mystic colouring; and her paintings were so 
bizarre that people complained of them as unintelligible 
and unlike nature. 

Unintelligible ! why every leaf had its meaning, every 
tint its feeling ! Those flowers that drooped so pensively 
— those weeds so tangled and torn — those lilies uprooted 
and thrown upon the bye path to be crushed beneath the 
foot of the passer by — those cottages so silent and deserted, 
with a lean and melancholy dog watching beside the door 
— those scenes of desolation and violence — had all to her 



304 BANTHOKPE. 

deep meaning, for they were the symbols of her sufferings, 
as she found them expressed by nature. 

In the midst of her work, she would often let her 
pencil or her needle fall, and with fixed but vacant 
eyes sit speechless for more than an hour at a time, 
absorbed in some painful or delicious reverie. She was 
then with her lover. His exquisite face was upturned to 
hers ; his dreamy eyes were speaking to her soul a lan- 
guage only intelligible to her; — his voice whispering in 
her ear the music of a lover's flattery and a lover's hope. 
She was acting again that blissful dream wherein they 
rambled through the mystic wood. She spoke to him — 
and her heart framed his replies. She smiled on him, 
and felt the warm pressure of his arm about her waist. 
Thus to her was the ideal made real : she lived in dreams, 
her waking moments were feverish with sorrow and re- 
morse. 

Little Walter was forced to leave England with his 
mother. Isola wept for him, but not as she would have 
wept a little while before. She had almost lost her 
consciousness of external things, and mingled her grief 
for Walter with her own peculiar sorrow. 

She had, in truth, overrated her strength: she had im- 
posed a burden on herself no woman can bear. She was 
no longer in the same state of mind as she had been before. 
She then thought — believed that Percy had ceased to love 
her. A sense of injury and of maidenly pride, made her 
shut her heart against him ; she now knew not only that 
he loved her still, but that she had never ceased to love 
him also — that her affection had slept, and was awakened 
by a touch. In the first belief she had only two resources ; 
suicide or endurance: in the second, also, only two; duty 
or happiness; happiness purchased by the sacrifice of duty, 



WAKING DKEAMS AND WAKING SADNESS. 305 

duty purchased by the sacrifice of happiness. As Schiller 
finely says : 

" O wie gross wird unsre Tugend 
Wenn unser Herz bei ihrer Uebung bricht !" 

To evils, when there is no remedy, we make up our minds : 
we are not every moment irritated by hope deferred. 
It is when the remedy is possible, yet does not come, — 
it is when hope is strong, but never is fulfilled, — that the 
mind is racked with agonies of suffering. Put a bird into 
a cage, and (having tried all its fastenings and seen escape 
to be impossible) it will chirrup with content, and take 
its daily food in peace : but tie that bird's leg by a string, 
and it will flutter to be free ; refuse all food ; all conso- 
lation; and break its yearning heart. The bright Heaven 
and the free air are above and around it, inviting it; one 
petty barrier alone prevents its springing into the air. It 
feels the power to fly — it rises and flies — to the length of 
the string! This constant endeavour, and this constant 
failure, is the misery. Affliction may be borne; but it 
must be irremediable, before it can be borne with pa- 
tience. 

Isola was fast sinking under this wearing struggle of 
her conscience with her instincts; and even Harry at last 
remarked that some secret sorrow was consuming her. 
He could not believe it to be grief for Walter's loss — could 
it be for Percy's loss? 

One evening as he passed beneath her window, he heard 
her singing. The pathos of her voice arrested him, and 
the tears rose to his eyes, as he distinctly caught this 
verse : 

" A present a peine j 'endure 
Ce qui me charmait autrefois; 
Du ruisseau je fuis le murmure; 
Je crains l'ombre triste des bois ; 
X 



306 EANTHORPE. 

Je maudis l'epine piquante 
Du rosier que ma main planta; 
Tout m' importune, tout me tormente— 
Rien ne me plait — il n'est plus la!" 

Her voice was broken by Her sobs as she reached the last 
line; and he moved away dizzy with the horrible thoughts 
that crowded on his brain. 






THE SACRIFICE. 307 



CHAPTEE IX. 

THE SACRIFICE. 

Oh. je t'ai aim£e, simple fleur que le vent brisait sur sa tige, pour 
ta beaute delicate et pure, et je t'ai cueillie esperant garder pour 
moi ton suave "parfum, qui s'exhalait a l'ombre et dans la solitude. 
Mais la brise me l'a emporte en passant, et ton sein n'a pu le retenir! 
Est ce une raison pour que je te haisse et te foule aux pieds ? Non ! je te 
reposerai doucement dans la rosee ou je t'ai prise, et je te dirai adieu, 
parceque mon souffle ne peut plus te faire vivre, et qu'il en est un 
autre dans ton atmosphere qui doit te relever et te ranimer. Refleuris 
done, 6 mon beau lis! je ne te toucherais plus! 

George Sand. 

Harry from this time suffered all the miseries of doubt 
and dread. He began by suspecting that, in spite of 
her assertions, Percy really had her heart. He watched 
her narrowly. He scrutinized the events which had oc- 
curred — her wrong — her second betrothment — her meet- 
ing with her first love — her subsequent sorrow. 

" She loves him ! — Yes — yet she would spare me ! Yes, 
that must be the cause of her grief. Oh, God ! what a 
thought ; to owe her to a sense of duty — pity I" 

Men are rarely moved to tears ; and his grief was too 
dull and stupifying to find relief in tears. But he walked 
up and down his room like a criminal awaiting execution, 
x2 



308 EANTHORPE. 

who knows his doom is inevitable, and yet cannot believe 
that he must die. 

A terrible struggle took place in his breast. But it 
ended in virtue subduing instinct. He resolved to relin- 
quish his claim, and purchase her happiness at the sacri- 
fice of his own. 

But he found it impossible to speak on the subject with 
Isola. Whenever he alluded to her melancholy, she asked 
him if she had not cause? Whenever he approached the 
name of Percy, she put her finger on his lips. By the 
sudden shiver that ran over her frame when it was alluded 
to, Harry saw how full of anguish the subject was; and at 
times doubted whether she really did love Percy. 

In this state of fluctuation he remained until the event 
recorded in the last chapter brought things to a crisis. 
From a narrow scrutiny of her countenance and manner, 
he divined pretty well the history of her grief. Unable 
longer to doubt, he was resolved to act. 

After quitting Isola on that memorable day, Ranthorpe 
returned home broken-spirited. He could no longer 
work — he had no object. What was popularity to him? 
Noise, mere noise ! 

And yet so little is a poet master of his own faculties, 
so little can he resolve to write or to be silent, that Percy, 
convinced of the nothingness of popularity, feeling that 
he had no object in life which should make him court the 
suffrages of the world, nevertheless was soon afterwards 
enthusiastically pursuing the plans of a new work, with 
the same eagerness, the same delight, as if his existence 
depended upon its success. 

He was one day sitting in his study with Wynton, 
fondly detailing to his faithful friend the nature of the 
work upon which he was then engaged, when Harry 



THE SACRIFICE. 309 

walked into the room. Percy rose surprised; and an- 
swering the frank gesture of Harry's outstretched hand 
"by a cold bow, motioned him to a chair. Harry under- 
stood the reception from a rival; but he was soiely hurt 
at it nevertheless. 

Ranthorpe was determined that his visitor should 
begin the conversation. Wynton looked on in uneasy 
amazement, and knew not what to conclude from Harry's 
altered appearance; for his cheeks were burning with a 
hectic glow, and his eyes had a strange wildness in them 
Wynton had never seen before. 

After a few minutes of this chilling silence, Harry said : 

" Can I speak with you alone?" 

Wynton rose ; but Ranthorpe checked him, saying: 

1 'Don't stir; there is nothing Mr. Cavendish can say 
to me that you may not hear." 

Then turning to Harry with exasperating coolness: 

" You were about to observe — " 

" What I have to say is entirely a private matter." 

" You must excuse me then if I decline attending 
to it." 

" Percy," said Wynton, " I must go; my presence is 
positively indelicate." 

" Your presence is indispensable. I wish to have some 
one by my side who will be some restraint upon me." 

Harry was galled; he knew not what to say, or what 
course to take. 

" Percy !" he exclaimed. 

" My name is Ranthorpe, sir." 

" You shall not irritate me, do what you will. I came 
to speak with you about Isola — now will you listen?" 

" Nothing you can say to me respecting Miss Churchill 
can have any interest for me," replied Ranthorpe, 



310 Ex\NTHOEPE. 

the beating of his pulse belying the coldness of his 
manner. 

A thought flashed across Harry's mind, that possibly 
he had been mistaken with respect to Isola's grief — per- 
haps Percy did not love her after all. 

He started up, and hurriedly saying, u Good day," left 
the room. 

" How could you treat him so, Percy?" said Wynton. 

" I hate him !" 

" Your old friend?" 

« My rival. My ungenerous rival. He knows — he 
must know Isola loved me; yet he has her word — she is 
engaged to him — and " 

Here the door opened, and they both started as Harry 
again appeared before them. 

" I will not be frustrated, " he said, 6t I will learn the 
truth. Since I must speak before Wynton, I here so- 
lemnly ask you if you still love Isola? Your answer I can 
read in your face. As you value her happiness and your 
own I charge you, tell me whether at your last meeting 
you talked with her of your love; and whether she told 
you of her engagement." 

Ranthorpe got up from his chair, and with intense 
scorn, answered : e ' Jealousy has many ingenious devices 
— could you not hit upon one which would answer your 
purpose quite as well, and not be quite so insolent." 

" Jealousy?" echoed Harry, while a bitter smile faded 
on his quivering lip. 

" Rivals," added Ranthorpe with increasing scorn, " are 
usually defied, not interrogated !" 

" Percy, Percy, have you not nobility enough at heart 
to understand me? Cease that scorn — do not make me 
forget myself! I am not jealous. Jealous, indeed! — ■ 



THE SACRIFICE. 311 

Well, well! — I ask you whether you spoke of love to 
her, and whether she rejected you because she was affi- 
anced to another. I feel she did; but 1 ask you that I may 
be sure that when I yield up my claim to be her husband, 
I am acting uprightly. You stare. You look incredulous? 
— Why, man, I love her — love her better than myself! 
Now do you understand me? I, who would die for her, 
shall I do her an irreparable wrong? I, who worship her, 
shall I permit her to waste her life on me, she loving 
another? No, no, no! Tell me that she rejected you, 
because her word was pledged to me — and she is yours ! 
Now do you understand me?" 

Ranthorpe gazed at him for a few seconds as if bewil- 
dered. Then recovering himself he walked up to him, 
holding out his hand in silence. In silence it was taken, 
and one long significant pressure was all these two bruised 
hearts could find to express their emotions. 



312 RANTHOKPE. 



CHAPTER X. 

RECONCILIATION. 

Alii, el silencio de la noche fria, 
El jasmin que en las redes se enlazaba, 
El cristal de la fuente, que corria, 
El arroyo, que a solas murmuraba, 
El viento, que en las hojas se movia, 
El aura, que en las floras respiraba 
Todo era amor. 

Calderon: Cisma de Inglaterra, 

Que causa puede haber sido 
La que llego a separar 
Dos corazones tan finos? 

Mokatin. 

On that wedding-day which had so strangely been 
fixed upon by Harry as the day which should witness his 
sacrifice; on that wedding-day which had approached 
without either Isola or her betrothed being aware of it, 
so little had their thoughts for some weeks been fixed 
upon marriage; on that day Isola had been deeply en- 
gaged with a drawing of more than usual mysticism. It 
was wild as a Salvator, tender as a Claude. It was a 
mere nothing — and yet every thing — a " study," and yet 
full of meaning. To ordinary eyes it was but a rocky 



RECONCILIATION. 313 

pass, with trees, flowers, weeds, and fragments of fallen 
stone, all in inextricable confusion. But as you looked 
closer its meaning gradually unfolded itself. There was 
desolation in those blasted jagged crags around which 
grew such luxuriant vegetation ; in the sombre blackness 
of the earth, from which the lush weeds grew — the weeds 
themselves confused and suffering, entangled, bent, and 
broken — tortured by overgrowth, yet full of beauty; 
there was desolation in the booming, roaring, flashing 
waterfall, writhing and hissing from a melancholy cleft; 
in the trunks of ancient trees twisted into fantastic shapes, 
branchless, hollow, scathed with lightning. And above 
all was the calm blue heaven, cloudless and windless, a 
solemn mockery of the desolation upon earth. There was 
a sombre irony in the picture. It showed the hideous 
skeleton beneath the mask of life. It was the symbolised 
sadness of one who had peered too curiously into the depths 
of her own heart. 

And yet this bitter mockery of life — this ghastly ana- 
lysis of irony, which displayed the skeleton beneath the 
beauteous form — this consciousness of her wound and 
scornful laying of it open, was not without its fascination to 
the artist. There is a dalliance with misery, which has its 
voluptuous orgies, powerful as those of the senses. There 
is a passion for rising above sorrow, and looking down upon 
it in painful scorn: playing with it, smiling at it — smiling 
amidst tears. 

In this mood Isola touched and retouched her picture. 
Her brush seemed as if it would never quit her hand; 
each stroke served only to bring out more fully the contrast 
of life and death — beauty and deformity — enjoyment and 
torture — contained in her conception. No clump of moss 
but had its meaning; no blade of grass rose higher than 



314 RANTHORPE. 

its neighbours without some ironical intention. The very 
masses of rock which encumbered the valley bore in one 
way or another the impress of this irony: here, one frag- 
ment was richly covered with lichens, while its side, partly 
exposed, was black and scathed; there, another fragment, 
rugged and barren, had green and speckled lizards crowd- 
ing from its fissures. 

In the evening Harry came and found her still occupied 
with her picture. She was greatly excited, and talked of 
little but of Art. 

" Art enshrines the great sadness of the world," she 
said; " it purifies, elevates, incarnates sadness in beauty, 
and thus preserves it. Without Art man would forget the 
sufferings which humanity has endured. Suffering, being 
disorder, is perishable ; yet it does not deserve wholly to 
perish, and Art enshrines it." 

" Should we not rather wish it to perish?" said he. 

" No; we need it constantly with us, to teach us charity 
— we need it to teach us fortitude. I should go mad, if 
I could not read in the pictures, poems, and melodies of 
great artists all that I endure ! I see they have en- 
dured them, and yet lived on. I trace the sadness of the 
artist in his lines, or in his faltering rhythm. I see his 
sadness underneath the gaiety with which he strives to 
mask it." 

" Does not this depend rather upon your mood, than 
upon their meaning?" 

"No; sadness is everywhere written on their works as 
it was engraven on their hearts. What sorrow is implied 
in the ever-present irony of Shakspeare ! What sorrow 
renders touching the measured stateliness of Milton ! Then 
think of Dante, grim with a thousand woes ! Think of 
the pensive sadness of Raphael, the austerity of Fra Bar- 



RECONCILIATION. 315 

tolomeo, the irony of Albert Diirer ! And oh ! the 
infinity of sorrow in the works of Beethoven; piercing, 
plaintive, exquisite, unalterable ! It is no common spirit, 
struggling with no common pain, which pierces his melo- 
dies with such plaints of woe ! And then Mozart — what 
quiet pathos amidst his smiles — what settled melancholy 
diffused through all his beauty." 

There was a pause. Her brush again struck out a few 
significant tints. She set it down again, and said : 

" It is in Art that I commune with those subtler por- 
tions of experience which words have no power to express. 
Art gives enduring form to the supersensuous in life. It 
gathers to its bsoom all the sufferings of Humanity, soothes 
them, embalms them, and thus becomes an everlasting 
monument of human experience." 

She stopped, but her lips continued to move, as if en- 
deavouring to speak. She rose and walked to the window, 
and threw it open. The moon was hidden behind a 
cloud, and the foliage which spread before her window, 
was dark as night ; nothing but an indistinguishable mass 
of )liage met her gaze. The sweet scent of flowers en- 
tering at the window, had a peculiar effect upon her 
nerves, and awakened strange associations. 

All was so calm, nothing interrupted the current of her 
thoughts. 

Harry watched her in silence; listened to her gentle 
breathing ; watched the rise and fall of her exquisite 
bosom as it panted beneath her dress; and puzzled him- 
self as to how he should break to her his resolution. 

While she stood there wrapt in thought, the moon 
slowly emerged from the cloud, and streamed upon her. 
She was thinking of Percy, when a rapid association car- 
ried her back in thought to that evening when, standing 



316 EANTHORPE. 

at the same window, and under the same moon, she 
plighted her vow to Harry. And this was its anniver- 
sary. 

" Come here, dear one," she said. 

He rose, approached, and took the hand she held out 
to him. 

" Have you forgotten this day?" she asked. " It was to 
be our wedding-day." 

A strange and sickly smile passed over his face. 

" You do not answer me." 

" Isola, dearest Isola, forget that evening." 

She started, and looked eagerly at him. 

"You promised me a widowed heart. — I should have 
been the happiest of men! — but your heart was not 
widowed! — I — don't heed these tears — I'm agitated. 
Well. — In a word, I forego my claim ! — I ask no fulfil- 
ment of a vow — how could I ask it? — rashly made, and 
bitterly repented. You love Percy Ranthorpe — he loves 
you. Be happy with him — it is all I wish. Let me be 
your friend — a brother whom you love. All I think of, 
all I care for, is to see you happy." 

She stared at him with vacant eyes, as one who rather 
felt than comprehended his meaning. Speechless and mo- 
tionless for a few moments, she then touched his forehead 
with her cold and quivering lips, murmuring : 

11 You humiliate me — I am very wicked !" 

" You are an angel, whom I love too well to see un- 
happy." 

" I did not think," she sobbed, " that I should ever 
give pain to one who has been to me what you have 
been." 

" Isola, Isola, let me have my reward; let me see you 
happy !" 



EECONCILIATION. 317 

She raised her tearful eyes to him, and after one long 
look of unutterable gratitude, gave vent to her tears. 

She wept over the duty she was sacrificing to love; he 
wept over the love he was sacrificing to duty. 

A carriage drove up, and put an end to this painful 
scene. Fanny Wilmington stepped out, and was soon 
beside her friend ; and soon made confidante of what had 
taken place. Why did she suddenly feel so elated? and 
why did she gaze at Harry with such intense fervour? 
and why was she so eloquent in his praise? She knew 
not ; all she knew was that the communication just 
made seemed to remove a load from off her heart. And 
it was with a strange flutter that she accepted his invita- 
tion to take a turn in the garden with him, so as to leave 
Isola with Percy, whose knock then announced him. 

Over the meeting of the lovers I draw a veil. The 
burst of rapture with which they clasped each other in a 
wild embrace — the many inquiries — the fond regrets and 
thrilling hopes — it is out of my power to convey. Let 
me, therefore, leave them to their happiness. 



318 BANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER XI. 

LOVE IS BLIND; COUCH NOT HIS EYES. 



There are a sort of spirits fall but once, 
But that once is perdition. 



Per me si va nella citta dolente; 
Per me si va nelT eterno dolore; 
Per me si ya tra la perduta gente. 



GlJIDONE. 



Dante. 



God! O God! that it were possible 
To UDdo things done; to call back yesterday! 
That time could turn up his swift sandy glass, 
To untell the days, and to redeem these hours ! 

Hetwood : Woman killed with kindness. 

Having thus seen Ranthorpe's battered boat at length 
put into port ; let us see what fate awaits Florence Haw- 
bucke, whom we left battling with the waves. 

Florence was in love ; and her husband had no suspicion 
of it ! His jealousy had indeed somewhat abated, but its em- 
bers were still burning. What made him blind to Florence's 
love was the absurdly mistaken notion he had formed of her. 
He thought her frivolous, and that, therefore, she would 
only love a frivolous man : strange error ! He knew her 
first complaint against him had been his want of liveliness, 



LOVE IS BLIND; COUCH NOT HIS EYES. 319 

and imagined that she would only love some gay and 
lively man who could amuse her. This, which at no time 
would have been true, was singularly false under present 
circumstances. 

Florence was wretched^ and needed sympathy, not live- 
liness. Shakspeare, who has sounded every note of human 
feeling, has not left this one untouched. The officious 
waiting- woman would charm a queenly sorrow with music, 
but the sufferer replies : 

* Thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep." 

Song may distract the gay, or lay its heavy burden of 
delicious pain upon the spirits of the happy; but grief 
demands sympathy — tears seek for tears — and sorrows love 
to jostle with sorrows greater than themselves, to learn, in 
the contact, humility and comfort. 

While, therefore, her husband would assuredly have 
shot the first lively young man who had the bad fortune 
of attracting much of Florence's attention, he witnessed 
without the shadow of a suspicion the intimacy growing 
between her and Bourne. The melancholy and unsuccess- 
ful dramatist, whose plays Sir Frederick had read with 
merited contempt, was, however, the only really danger- 
ous rival admitted to Florence's intimacy. Sir Frederick 
had too profound a contempt for him to fear him. Besides, 
it never occurred to him that a heavy melancholy man 
could interest the frivolous Florence. But that melan- 
choly man interested the wretched Florence ! 

Bourne was naturally of a bilious temperament; and 
continued ill-success, acting upon an idolatry of Byron, 
had fostered in him a very respectable amount of misan- 
thropy. He was intensely vain ; and was incessantly en- 
deavouring to assume some imposing attitude before the 



320 RANTHOEPE. 

world. As an orator, a legislator, and a poet, he had 
ludicrously failed. As a misanthrope he had gained 
tolerable success in society : for people avoided him with 
unfeigned alacrity. 

Florence was attracted to him by his sorrows. They 
spoke vaguely of woes which had, in both their cases, 
embittered an ardent youth — of deceptions which had 
blighted a believing heart. They were eloquent in scorn 
of the pretended force of love. In this Florence was 
serious, Bourne acting. Strange that this actress should 
in turn become a dupe ! 

Bourne, gratified at so credulous a listener, made up a 
history of his life, smacking greatly of the circulating 
library, but avidly listened to and believed by Florence. 
He had at first no motive in this beyond the mere delight 
of making himself the hero of a fictitious narrative — of 
placing himself in an effective attitude. But when she 
confided to him her history, — when he had shed tears with 
her over that confidence, — new thoughts, wild and turbu- 
lent, hurried across his mind. He felt that when man and 
woman exchange confidences, there is but one step more 
for them to take ; and that is to exchange vows. 

Florence, as I have more than once intimated, was not 
possessed of much heart. She had more sensibility than 
depth of feeling. Her nervous temperament and her 
education together had made her somewhat romantic — 
that is to say, avid of emotions ; but hers was not a loving 
nature. She loved with her head more than with her 
heart. And it was owing precisely to this distinction 
that she was led away by the vulgar acting of Bourne. 
Her imagination was inflamed. She seemed in his history 
to have read the narrative of a life which she was made to 
render glorious and happy. Bourne was the loving, sen- 



LOVE IS BLIND; COUCH NOT HIS EYES. 321 

sitive, suffering heart, she had been seeking all her life. 
With him she would fly away from the odious tyranny of 
her cold-hearted husband. She but awaited Bourne's avowal. 

That avowal was made one night at a ball. Bourne, 
who was a great coward, approached the subject in the 
most guarded manner ; but her encouragement soon dis- 
pelled his fears. He returned home that night in an 
intoxication of vanity he had never known before. She 
loved him ! She was his ! The beautiful and admired 
Lady Hawbucke, his ! 

He could not sleep that night. Nor could she : but for 
a different reason. The crime she was about to commit — 
and fears of her husband's vengeance — tortured her all 
night. Often did she resolve to write to Bourne entreat- 
ing him to think no more of her; or thought of quitting 
London, and giving him no clue. But the uselessness of 
these steps soon occurred to her ; the terrible figure of her 
husband was ever before her, and the prospect of escaping 
from him was too tempting. 

A prey to contending emotions, she lay shivering in her 
bed, uncertain how to act, yet feeling that some dread 
fatality urged her to ruin. 

Bourne got up next morning in a state of smiling 
complacency. He sat down to breakfast, smiling; he 
broke the eggs, smiling ; he buttered slips of toast, 
smiling; he opened the newspaper, smiling; and failing 
in an attempt to read it, threw it on the sofa and poked 
the fire — still smiling. 

Breakfast finished, he drew his chair in front of the fire, 
and placing his slippered feet upon the fender, commenced 
a mechanical poking of the fire — serenely smiling all the 
time. Now was the poker suspended in the air as if the 

Y 



322 RANTHOEPE. 

blow was intercepted by a thought. Now was it thrust 
with vigour into the centre of some glittering lumps of 
coal. Now it rested in the fire till it became red hot. 
Now it rested on the hob to cool, and Bourne regarded it 
with an indefinite smile. 

He was chuckling over the success of his acting, and 
framing plans of future delight. He was picturing to 
himself her tenderness and jealousy — who can wonder 
that he smiled? 

But this self-gratulation was not of long duration, 
for in the midst of his smiles, he was startled by 
the appearance of his victim. Florence, pale with fa- 
tigue, terror, and the emotions of last night, stood before 
him. 

" Good God !" he exclaimed, letting the poker drop, 
but never rising from his seat. 

She rushed into his embrace. 

u You are surprised, Henry?" she said, throwing her 
arms round him. " Did you fancy, then, that I could 
keep you in suspense? Did you think me coquette 
enough to enjoy your torture?" 

He wished from his heart she had been that coquette; 
but he remained silent. 

" Why, Henry," she resumed, " you do not speak 
to me ; you do not even kiss me ! One would say that 
you were not glad to see me !" 

" To confess the truth," he replied, " I would rather 
have seen you at your own house. You have been very 
imprudent. You may be seen — recognised. 5 ' 

" Well !" exclaimed the astonished woman. 

" We should both be lost. You must be mad to brave 
the danger. 






LOVE IS BLIND; COUCH NOT HIS EYES, 323 

Florence looked at him steadily; his eye shifted from 
her scrutiny, and her face contracted with agony. 

" Do you not love me ?" she said, coldly. 

a 1 do — I do," replied he, rising; " believe me, dearest 
Florence, it is my love that dictates this prudence. I 
tremble for you every instant you are here; suppose any 
one should call?" 

Without answering, she rVng the bell. 

" Mr. Bourne is at home to no one" she said, to the 
servant who entered. 

" Now, then, your fears are set at rest." 

" You will drive me mad !" he exclaimed, pacing the 
room with restless agitation. " How can you be so im- 
prudent !" 

The coward heart of the man was crushed by this event ! 
He had calculated on a quiet intrigue; but the reckless- 
ness of this first imprudence awakened bitter fears for 
the future. If the present visit should pass unnoticed, 
yet he could not hope that the succeeding visits would 
be equally fortunate ; and then the husband, publicly out- 
raged, would avenge his dishonour ! This idea distracted 
him ; it poisoned all his feelings ; it ruined all his hopes. 
He bitterly cursed himself for having chosen so violent a 
woman ; and vowed to leave London the next day, and to 
escape the consequences of an intrigue with her. 

She watched him for some time in silence ; at length 
she said: 

" Henry, did you not bid me come?" 

" I?" exclaimed Bourne, amazed. 

" Yes, you. Did you not tell me that you loved me? 
Did you not curse the fate that separated us? Did you 
not say how sweet it would have been to pass your days 

x2 



324 RANTHORPE. 

for ever at rny side ? Did you not swear, that should I 
be a widow, your hand was ready to confirm your 
oaths?" 

These were so many thrusts of a knife into his breast. 
This rapid turning upon him of oaths, sworn in the heat 
of successful acting, was overwhelming. 

" Did you not say this?" she repeated, vehemently. 

" I did !— I did! I say so'still." 

" Then be happy — I am a widow!''' 

" Great God !" said he, thunderstruck. " Is he — is he 
dead?" he faltered, overcome with the terrible idea which 
had entered his head that she had murdered him. 

" No 3 Henry, not dead. But I am a widow ; I am no 
longer a wife; I have left him; I have dishonoured him; 
I have broken my vows — I have ceased to be his wife, to 
become your mistress !" 

He sank upon the sofa, prostrated with terror. Then 
suddenly springing up, he exclaimed: 

"It is not too late; your absence will not have been 
remarked ; you have been shopping — visiting — any thing. 
Fly, fly — go home. I will see you this evening. Quick ! 
quick ! — home !" 

" Home? I have none, but beneath your roof. I have 
left my husband for ever. By this time he knows it." 

Bourne's face became livid with horror, as she pro- 
nounced these words, and it was with difficulty he could 
articulate. 

" He— knows —it !" 

" Why are you so agitated?" she asked, wonderingly. 
" Did you not expect me?" 

A savage smile played upon his lips, as he murmured, 
" Expect you ?" 



LOVE IS BLIND ; COUCH NOT HIS EYES. 325 

"Yes, expect me! You swore you loved me. Did 
you suppose that I could listen to your vows, and remain 
with my husband? Did you suppose — " 

" Oh ! how could I suppose you mad !" he interrupted 
— " how could I suppose that you would fly in the face of 
the world, and ruin yourself and me, and dishonour your 
husband, by a mad revolt? How .could I suppose you 
would have acted differently from other women, and drag 
down unnecessary ruin on us both ?" 

•' Would you then have waited till he discovered our 
love? You know him — you know what the consequences 
would have been. He who killed an innocent man on 
mere suspicion I" 
Bourne shuddered. 

" I have written to him," continued Florence, " to say 
that I have left his roof for ever, and that in America I 
hope to find a home." 

" He will not believe it — he will discover all. He will 
not rest. Oh God ! what a fool ! what a fool !" 

He beat his hand against his forehead as he said this. 
She burst into tears. He paced up and down the 
room, fear and remorse beating at his heart. 

And all this while the husband was pacing up and down 
the street, undergoing a struggle almost as fierce, though 
of a different kind ! 

He was returning home just as Florence left. Sur- 
prised at seeing her go out at so unusual an hour, and 
without the carriage, without a footman, his jealousy was 
at once alarmed. He followed her at a short distance, 
and saw her enter Bourne's house. He was now strug- 
gling with contending passions. 

Florence but too clearly saw that she had been deceived: 



326 RANTHORPE. 

that Bourne was a despicable coward, who trembled for 
himself, and therefore would not protect her. But un- 
willing to relinquish her last illusion, she said, timidly, 

" Dearest Henrj, am I to blame? If you loved me, 
did you not wish me to come and be your companion?" 

" No l" he retorted, brutally. 

A low shriek was her only answer. 

" No ! not at such a cost; you must have known it." 

Having vented his rage in this brutal speech, he re- 
sumed his restless walk, absorbed in plans for escap- 
ing from the consequences of the act for whose immea- 
surable folly he now cursed himself. Nothing is so cruel 
as cowardice, and Bourne was an utter coward. 

Florence stood motionless, as if endeavouring to collect 
her ideas, which had been scattered by this blow. There 
are moments of mental paralysis in which the brain has 
only a dim consciousness of all around — a heavy stupor 
oppresses the faculties, and blunts all mental pain. In 
such a state stood Florence. Her eyes were couched, 
and she had read the heart of her seducer. She knew 
herself to have been his dupe. He had only acted 
love! 

A street-organ at that moment began playing the duet 
from " EElisire oV Amove" which Florence had been 
accustomed to sing with Ranthorpe. In an instant, the 
whole drama of her coquetry, and his love, again passed 
before her mind. 

"This is my second punishment for that wickedness," 
she said, in a mournful under tone, speaking to herself. 
" I did not think my crime had been great. But it must 
have been. The measure I meted out to him, is now 
meted out to me." 



LOVE IS BLIND; COUCH NOT HIS EYES. 327 

Slowly and mechanically she turned to the door. 
Bourne looked up at her. One withering sneer was all 
she deigned to avenge herself with ; and in another in- 
stant he was alone. A deep sigh seemed to remove an 
intolerable load from his breast. He instantly commenced 
preparations for quitting England. 

She descended the stairs slowly, opened the street-door, 
and found herself face to face with her husband. 



328 RANTHORPE. 



CHAPTER XII. 

DENOUEMENT. 

And greadie wormes had gnawen this payned heart 
Without its feeling pain. 

FERREX AND PORBEX. 

Whatever astonishment Florence might have felt at 
this unexpected apparition of her husband, was merged 
in terror as she accepted his quietly proffered arm, and 
walked with him down the street. She had such an 
opinion of his remorseless vengeance, that all present suf- 
fering was for a moment arrested; she could only watch 
his countenance, and seek to divine what was going on 
in his heart. He was deadly pale, and his lips were com- 
pressed together by an effort. But his face was otherwise 
impassive, and gave no indications of what was passing 
within. 

Some fearful retaliation was apparently concealed be- 
neath that stillness, and her flesh crept as she watched 
his pale, calm face. 

They reached home. Sir Frederick gave the servants 
some trifling orders in his usual tone ; and on being left 
alone with Florence in the drawing-room, he sat himself 
at the further end of the room, and said : 



DENOUEMENT. 329 

"Lady Hawbucke, if the irreparable wrong that you have 
done me, has not quite corrupted you — if there is any par- 
ticle of truth and honour left in you, answer me truly: 
How long have you and he understood each other?" 

" We have never understood each other." 

He frowned, and almost shook with rage. Collecting 
his ideas, he rose and said : 

" I might have expected this." 

" You misapprehend. When I said we had never 
understood each other, I spoke truly — he never understood 
me, and I — oh God, what a fearful mistake did I make ! 
But I know what you mean — and I will answer. You ask 
me how long he has known that I loved him. Since last 
night, — Would that I had died before that night !" 

He started, and then looking incredulously at her, re- 
peated : 

" Since last night !" 

"Yes; did you not get my letter? But I forgot — 
there was nothing of that in it." 

■ ' Your letter ? Where ? when ?" 

" Go into your dressing-room. Read, read." 

He went; found the letter, read it, and returned. 

" And will you swear?" he said, "that last night was 
the first time you had spoken of love to him?" 

" I swear it." 

" Your intention was then to quit me at once ?" 

" It was." 

u Thank you for that.'' 1 He paused awhile, and then 
said, " But why do you quit him ?" 

" Because he is a despicable coward — a selfish hypocrite; 
because I found that I had been his dupe ; because his 
fear of you betrayed him !" 

it Yet you loved him !" he bitterly murmured. 



330 BANTHORPE. 

She wept, but made no reply. A long pause followed. 
The scene which had just taken place had altogether 
altered the current of Sir Frederick's thoughts. If Bourne 
was such a coward, that he would rather brutally repulse a 
lovely woman who threw herself into his arms, than run 
the risk of braving her husband's vengeance, it was quite 
clear that he would never insinuate any thing in the re- 
motest way connected with the affair. His silence was 
certain. As their understanding had been so recent, no 
one else could as yet have been informed of it. On this 
score also, Sir Frederick felt relieved. 

Florence was eagerly, though furtively, watching him, 
and augured well from the comparative brightness his face 
assumed. Her terrors began to diminish. They were re- 
newed, however, as he began to speak again; the glacial 
tone of his voice was more terrible than any vehemence. 

" You have done me a wrong; you can in some degree 
repair it. Are you willing ?" 

" My life is yours — take it." 

" I have no need of it. I only ask you to save your 
character, and mine. As society is at present constituted, 
your acts may dishonour me ; though mine cannot affect 
you. I may be dissolute, degraded ; and your name is 
uncontaminated by my acts. But the slightest of your 
acts touches me nearly; and when you forget your own 
self-respect, you drag my honour with you into the mire. 
Pray allow me to proceed. I will hear you afterwards. 
We can no longer live together. I relinquish the combat. 
I cannot defend my own name. I withdraw. But, mark 
me, the wish for separation must spring from you — the 
cause from me. You must continue to act the pure wife — 
I must be the unfaithful husband. You must be above 
suspicion." 



DENOUEMENT. 331 

" What do you mean ?" 

" If we part now, or if we part from any cause alledged 
by me, your character will be stained — and mine with it. 
If I give the cause, both our characters will be untar- 
nished. In one month hence, you shall discover in my 
desk letters written to me from some abandoned woman. 
These you will take to your mother, heart-broken and in- 
dignant. You are actress enough for that. You will in- 
sist on a separation. You will be inflexible. The separation 
will take place, and all the world will say, ' Poor thing, 
she has been dreadfully used!' " 

" And what will they say of you?" 

" Nothing — except perhaps to wonder at my taste. But 
let them say what they please, I preserve my name spot- 
less. Are you prepared to play this little farce ?" 

" If you insist." 

" I insist." 

" Then I have no will." 

" That shall be my vengeance." 

He left the room. She remained almost bewildered at 
what had passed. For a long while she was incredulous. 
Could he be devising some fearful vengeance under this; 
or was it simply, as he said, a plan for the preservation of 
his name from suspicion? 

Her terrors once banished, her grief returned. But it 
was a silent grief — a stupor, not a passion. 



A few months after the events just recorded, Sir Henry 
Varden came home one day, and said to his wife : 

le Really, my dear, Catholicism is making alarming 
progress in England. Who do you think has recently be- 
come a convert ?" 

" Who ? Don't tantalise me." 



332 EANTHOEPE. 

" Lady Hawbucke. I have it from fcer mother, who is 
inconsolable, and highly indignant with her daughter. It 
seems but the other day she was separated, and now she 
turns Catholic !" 

" As a refuge, I suppose, from her sorrows.'' 

" Egad, if all the women whose husbands are incon- 
stant threw themselves into the arms of the Church of 
Rome, England will soon be under the thumb of the 
Pope." 

si Don't talk so, my dear Sir Henry. I quite wonder 
at you. Poor Lady Hawbucke ! Well, who would have 
thought it?" 



THE LOVERS. 333 



CHAPTER XIII. 

THE LOVEES. 

Wenn alle Menschen ein paar Liebende waren, so fiele der Unterschied 
zwischen Mysticismus, und Nicht-Mysticismus weg. 

NoVALIS. 

What is love ? Ask him who lives, what is life? ask him who 
adores, what is God ? 

Shelley. 

And now the little circle of our friends is happy again : 
greatly to my relief, as doubtless to that also of the reader. 
We have had nothing but tears for some time : every thing 
seemed to go wrong, and every body to be miserable. 

Now, although misery is a good condiment, it is a bad 
food. It may leaven our daily life ; it may heighten it 
with glimpses of something above and around it, of which 
the senses give no intimation; it may help to sharpen the 
gusto of pleasure; it may add a tenderness to content: 
but it will not suffice for the staple of life, nor of fiction, 
which pretends to image life. The reader gets tired of 
tears : his sympathies become exhausted. The writer also 
gets tired : his vocabulary becomes exhausted. Thus it is 
fortunate for all sakes, that our friends happen to be all 
smiles and hopes just now. 



334 KANTHORPE. 

Isola and Percy were supremely happy — happy as lovers 
in their height of bliss. 

Harry was happy. At first, indeed, a shadow of me- 
lancholy darkened his soul, but the glory of a virtuous ac- 
tion supported him. It delighted while it pained him to 
see Isola happy; he felt that he had done well, but he 
was human, and could not altogether repress a feeling of 
jealousy. I am not sure that he would ever have been 
perfectly reconciled to his act, had he not found consola- 
tion in his love for Fanny. 

Yes, reader — for Fanny! There is deep meaning in 
the proverb, lc Many a heart caught in the rebound." 
No want is more imperious than the want to love. And 
Harry had, for the last two months, been constantly thrown 
with Fanny, to be consoled by her, to be sympathised 
with by her, to talk of love to her, and finally to talk love 
to her. Parler V amour cest faire V amour : another 
true proverb ! 

If any reader should accuse Harry of inconstancy, levity, 
or want of true affection, he will be grievously mistaken. 
It was owing to the very overflowing excess of his affec- 
tion that he loved another. His heart could not be void. 
He saw the hazel eyes of Fanny full of love for him, and 
he was subdued by them. Isola was lost to him ; Fanny 
was there, ready to console him. Did he not act wisely 
in allowing himself to be consoled? He did. Or rather 
he could not help it. He glided imperceptibly into 
love! 

And Fanny! She had seen much of him, and 
learned to prize him dearly, before the nattering idea of 
one day gaining his love ever crossed her mind. She 
knew him as the noble, generous, affianced lover of her 
friend ; and this knowledge had removed all the constraint 



THE LOVERS. 335 

in her manner; she could talk to him without fear — but 
not without danger! Poor Fanny! hers was a heart 
made to love; but her natural shyness had kept her a 
stranger to the feeling, until she indulged it for Ran- 
thorpe, and after that illusion had been dispelled, she had 
never dared to raise her eyes to another. But Harry she 
had known in all the intimacy of exquisite unreserve. A 
brother could not have been more dear to her. And it 
was not until his disinterested renunciation of I sola had 
broken the relation which formerly subsisted between 
them, that she became at all aware of the condition of her 
heart : she was then too far gone to retract, even had she 
desired it. 

These too creatures loved each other; but there was 
something strange and feverish in their affection. They 
had both occasional twinges of jealousy. Harry could not 
always see without a pang the silent adoration with which 
Isola gazed upon Percy. Fanny could not fail to re- 
mark it. 

In spite of this little occasional twinge our four lovers 
spent a delicious time of it. Percy and Isola saw clearly 
enough the state of their friends' hearts, and only awaited 
the avowal. That came at last. They used always to 
assemble at Isola's in the evening, and the twilight was 
prolonged to the utmost; and when candles were at last 
inevitable, they consoled themselves with music for the 
loss of those mysterious feelings which seem only fitted for 
the vague and dreamy twilight. And what hours were 
those of twilight ! 

In one of them, Percy and Isola were seated in the 
window recess, hand clasped in hand, speechless from 
unutterable emotion, gazing into each other's eyes, his 
cheek gently brushing her silken hair, whose perfume 



336 KANTHORPE. 

thrilled his soul with vague voluptuous ecstasy. Fanny 
gently ran her ringers over the chords of the piano, pro- 
ducing wild and plaintive sounds like those ravished from 
an iEolian harp ; and Harry sat close to her, his elbow 
leaning on the piano, his head resting on his hand, gazing 
at her in silent adoration. The plaintive chords moved 
him strangely. He begged her to sing; and in a soft, 
small, but touching voice, she sang Paisiello's 11 mio ben. 
He had heard Isola sing this; and her magnificent voice, 
every intonation of which made the hearer vibrate beneath 
its mysterious power, would have made the singing 
of a Malibran or a Grisi ineffective in comparison; but 
Fanny's small, veiled, yet pathetic voice had a charm of 
its own, which if not greatly musical was intensely af- 
fecting. 

The tears came into his eyes. He could not thank her. 
He continued to gaze at her, and she turned her hazel 
eyes upon him : their light shone through the darkness, 
and he read their meaning. Then, for the first time, did 
he read their meaning aright — then did he feel she loved 
him! No word of love had crossed their lips; and yet 
in this sudden inspiration all their passion was revealed. 
He gently placed his hand in hers : a burning pressure 
was the reply. He bent forward, and their lips met 
in one long fervid kiss. In that moment they were af- 
fianced ! 

The happiness of Percy and Isola now was complete. 
The engagement of Harry and Fanny, which they had 
quickly foreseen, removed the only obstacle to their per- 
fect happiness. New feelings had sprung up in Percy's 
breast during the last month, which made him regard 
marriage with peculiar solemnity. In fact, he had not 
loved, properly speaking, till now. His senses had been 



THE LOVEES. 337 

inflamed, his imagination dazzled, and the yearning, eager, 
all-curious heart of the boy had been occupied; but his 
love had been the love of a boy. 

The love of a boy differs from that of a man in this — 
it is the wanton enjoyment of a present imperious feeling, 
from which all serious consideration of the future is ex- 
cluded. It is mere blind activity of newly-awakened 
emotions. Hence the rashness of early loves. The boy 
wants to love; almost any woman will suffice. Hence he 
is violent, capricious, inconstant, because he only seeks an 
excitement ; he tries his young wings. The tender feeling 
of protection, which enters so largely into the love of a 
man, — the serious thoughts of the duties he owes to the 
girl who gives up her life to him, and to the children she 
may bear him, — these, and the thousand minute but 
powerful influences which affect the man 5 are unknown to 
the boy. 

Percy Ranthorpe felt that he was entering upon the 
most important epoch of his life. Already had many 
things become clearer to him. He could say, with 
Shelley, 

" In no communion with this purest being 
Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise 
In knowledge which, in hers my own mind seeing, 
Left in the human world few mysteries." 



338 EANTHOEPE. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE COURSE OF TEUE LOVE. 

Let them anatomise Kegan, see what breeds about her heart. Is 
there any cause in nature makes these hard hearts? 

Shakspeare. 

The insolence of lovers ! They always imagine that 
when they have avowed their love to each other, the 
whole business is completed. Parents are nonentities, 
settlements are figments. Whoever thinks of one or the 
other ? 

But, alas ! Fanny and her lover were somewhat rudely 
awakened to the existence of parental authority by the 
plain, unqualified refusal to the marriage, with which her 
mother answered Harry's application. It was more than 
a refusal — it was an insult. Indeed, when Lady "Wil- 
mington heard of her daughter's engagement with an 
obscure surgeon, the reader may imagine her indignation, 
and the vehemence with which she protested the marriage 
should never take place. Unfortunately, Fanny, though 
almost broken-hearted at her mother's refusal, could not 
be persuaded to dispense with her consent. She dared 
not brave her mother's anger ; not from any love she felt 
towards her, but from an exaggerated sense of duty and 



THE COUESE OF TRUE LOVE. 339 

gratitude. Her mother had always treated her with 
marked indifference ; but she was, nevertheless, her 
mother. 

The reader is already somewhat acquainted with Lady- 
Wilmington's character; one or two touches more are 
necessary to complete the picture. 

Lady Wilmington was considered irreproachable by 
her friends, and invulnerable by her enemies. If the term 
" respectable," could consistently be applied to any one 
of the class to which she belonged, one would say that 
she was eminently " respectable." She had preserved her 
virtue (!) from the breath of slander— a breath which 
Shakspeare says a woman cannot escape, though " chaste 
as ice, as pure as snow," — but I never said Lady Wil- 
mington was chaste as ice. She had never opened her doors 
to any woman whose frailties had been openly canvassed. 
She went to church — once a month. She gave her 
name to subscriptions to several charitable institutions: 
her name, indeed, but rarely her money. Generosity, 
charity, and other Christian sentiments, were for ever on 
her lips : a fact which, perhaps, accounted for their absence 
elsewhere. 

A character like hers, reduced to its strict formula — 
without heart as without intellect — appears, at first sight, 
the mere exaggeration of a novelist, and the reader refuses 
to believe that such a woman could anywhere be tole- 
rated. But, good and gentle reader ! I have not been thus 
minute in painting a mere exaggeration. It is a portrait 
— taken at many sittings, and under many different lights 
— a portrait, unfortunately, that might be hung up in 
many a drawing-room, and pronounced " most like." 

And yet is it not strange that the reader should doubt 
its truth, because, although the features themselves are 

z2 



340 KANTHORPE. 

neither untrue nor exaggerated, yet inasmuch as the ex- 
pression is absent, so the face seems revolting. I have 
given the moral characteristics of Lady Wilmington : but 
the manner, which was as drapery to her worthlessness — 
manner by which most people are judged — this I could 
not give. 

Not that her manner was more winning than that of 
ordinary people ; but such as it was, it served to cover 
a hideous skeleton. Perfect in all those movements which 
nothing but long habit can successfully assume, and which 
demarcates the aristocracy from the rest of society, her 
very affectations seemed to be natural to her. Soft, lan- 
guishing, low-voiced, and indifferent, she was almost made 
up of negations, and thus never offended. There was an 
absence of every thing positive in her manner, which pre- 
sented any single point either for approval or dislike; 
except when she startled by a sarcasm, and then, indeed, 
she seemed to compensate for previous langour by the 
sparkling malice of her eyes. The most cold and cruel 
things were uttered with a gusto which made you start, 
especially in so languid a person : it was, indeed, revolt- 
ing to see this soft-mannered woman suddenly aroused to 
eager cruelty (which alone seemed capable of arousing 
her) — it was like looking on the sleek, velvety paws of 
a tiger, out of which softness suddenly spring hideous 
talons ! 

Fanny, with her opposite sentiments, soon detected her 
mother's adoration of the world, and the world's ways, 
and thought she sacrificed too much to it ; but she 
had not the slightest suspicion of her insincerity; and had 
heard her so often attribute to herself the virtues of 
generosity, charity, self-sacrifice, and religion, that she 
received the existence of these as matters of course. 



THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 341 

Affection there was none between them: all her ad- 
vances to her mother had been repelled; all her senti- 
ments opposed; and all her sympathies ridiculed. But 
Fanny could not forget the relationship ; and her mother 
hoped, she said, 

" That no daughter o£mine can ever forget the immense 
debt of gratitude she owes to me — never forget the sacri- 
fices I have made for my children — sacrifices which no 
other mother would have made." 

Fanny did not clearly comprehend in what this debt 
consisted, but as her mother was always referring to it, 
she could not doubt that it had been contracted. The 
" sacrifices" having never been specified, were equally 
received upon trust ; and the deed, or deeds, which 
no other mother would have done, were left to her 
force of imagination. In sober seriousness Fanny believed 
herself bound, more than any other child had ever been, 
to sacrifice herself for the parent who had done so much 
for her. So that in spite of the want of filial love, there 
was a strong sense of filial duty in poor Fanny's breast; 
and when her mother wept with her at the mention of 
Harry — when she declaimed in her usual style on 
the sacrifices she had made, and which were thus to be 
requited; when she painted the horror she should suffer 
from such a disgraceful alliance; when she told her what 
the world would say, already too busy as it was with her 
unfortunate sister, Florence ; how it would blame the 
parent who consented, more than the child who lost 
herself ; and how this " would infallibly shorten her days," 
— can we wonder that Fanny's heart sunk within her, 
and that she determined not to act in outrage to the feel- 
ings of one " who had done so much for her?" 



342 RANTHOKPE. 

She trusted that time would soften her mother's objec- 
tions ; trusted that when her mother saw how real and 
unshakeable was the love she bore him, consent would not 
be long withheld. She little knew her mother ! 

Percy and Isola, as may be expected, were deeply dis- 
tressed at Harry's situation. On finding Lady Wilming- 
ton so opposed to the match, Percy called on her. He 
had not been within her doors since that day on which 
Florence rejected him ; and it was with violent agitation 
that he ascended the staircase. He mastered his feelings 
sufficiently to meet Lady Wilmington with becoming 
suavity. She was delighted to see him, for he was cele- 
brated, and she had been often foiled in her attempts to 
allure him to her house. She upbraided him with his 
fickleness towards " old friends," and told him that she 
must positively keep him to dinner. He accepted; made 
himself immensely agreeable, and having stayed till all 
the guests had departed, he opened to her the real purpose 
of his visit. She was indignant at the idea of the match. 
He was eloquent — earnest — but he had to do with Lady 
Wilmington. He left the house, bitterly convinced that 
her consent would never be given. 

On hearing this, Wynton, who had been powerfully 
affected by the noble generosity displayed by Harry, told 
Percy that he thought of going himself to Lady Wilming- 
ton, and interceding in his friend's behalf. 

" I have a strange suspicion that she will be in some 
way influenced by me." 

" I fear not, Wynton. But you can try." 

" It will be extremely painful forme to see her — I have 
not seen her since the day on which she became Lady 
Wilmington ! Yet, for Harry, I would do a great deal. 



THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 343 

Indeed, I should be ashamed to consider my own feelings 
in a case where he is concerned — he, who so little considers 
his own !" 

On the following day, Lady Wilmington was sitting in 
her drawing-room, really vexed. She was not apt to be 
angry ; but she had that morning suffered a shock in her 
tenderest point. Fanny had refused — positively refused — 
a brilliant match. The girl's head was completely turned 
by silly romance. She had thrown away her best chance 
of happiness ; and thrown it away out of some nonsensical 
feelings for an adventurer. Lady Wilmington almost 
stormed. What could the girl expect ? What could she 
come to ? Was that the way to gain a mother's consent ? 
Was that the way to gain a mother's pardon? 

Lady Wilmington was astonished. 

Still greater was her astonishment and agitation as the 
servant handed her a card on which she read Wynton's 
name. Scarcely conscious of what she was saying, she 
bade that he should be admitted; and before she had 
recovered her self-possession, her former lover stood before 
her. 

Wynton was deadly pale. His countenance betokened 
the mastery of a dreadful struggle passing within. His 
bearing was haughty and cold : the perfect reverse of his 
usual manner. He had struggled ; he had conquered ; and 
he was there ; — there, in the presence of her whom he had 
not seen for twenty years ! The sight would at all times 
have been painful to him ; but to see her so changed — to 
see the giddy, lovely, heartless, but fascinating girl, grown 
into the sedate, heartless, and repulsive woman, was what 
he had not prepared himself for. 

He, too, was changed, and she noticed it. Twenty 
years of struggle and improvidence had robbed him of 



344 EANTHOKPE. 

his personal advantages ; but it had not robbed Mm of his 
intellectual superiority; and in the careworn, intelligent, 
haughty man who now stood before her, she saw little 
change for the worse. 

She rose and held out her hand. He remained motion- 
less, at if disdaining to notice her advances. She walked 
towards him, and, with sudden warmth, said: 

" Let us be friends." 

He fixed his eyes steadily upon hers; they did not 
waver beneath his glance. He answered coldly, while a 
slight sneer quivered his lip : 

" Your ladyship forgets I was your brother's tutor." 

She was piqued, and said reproachfully : 

" I only remember that I once loved you." 

"Loved?" 

" Yes, loved. Ah ! I know how shockingly I behaved 
to you. But, indeed, it was not my fault. I had not 
courage to go through with my part. When I saw all my 
friends assembled — when I heard myself called upon to 
pronounce the fatal ' Yes,' — I was frightened, and pro- 
nounced it. Had you been there — had I but caught a 
glimpse of your eye, I should have braved them all. But 
I was alone, and I was hurried into a marriage I abhorred." 

She spoke with warmth; a bitter sneer was all the 
answer he could give. She perceived it, and sinking into 
a chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept. She 
was acting. Yet, as so often happens with persons of keen 
nervous sensibility, she felt something of that passion 
which she was portraying. Above all, she wished ta 
impress him with belief in her sincerity. The more in-* 
credulous he appeared, the more she redoubled her efforts. 
At that moment she would have given any thing to see a 
tear in his eye, to hear the words of pardon from his lips. 



THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 345 

She had nearly succeeded, when lie broke to her the 
object of his visit. " You can remove my doubts at once," 
he said. " Give your consent to the marriage of your 
daughter with the man she loves, and you will best con- 
vince me that you really prize affection above wealth.' 5 

" Consent to Fanny's marriage?" 

" Ah ! I see — you shrink from it." 

"No, no, no. Believe me, no. If she really loves 
him. There. — I will consent. Now, are you convinced?" 
He took her hand, and kissed it. 

" You have made me happy," said he. 

" Then you forgive me?" 

"I do." Wynton did forgive her at the moment. He 
had not, however, long left the house before his old 
opinion of her returned, and he looked upon that scene as 
a well-acted piece of sentiment. But the motive he could 
not fathom. 

Let me endeavour to explain it. Lady Wilmington 
was, as I said, a creature of sensitive nerves, but small 
brain. She was consequently a creature of impulses. 
The impulse to convince Wynton of her not being the 
worthless creature he must necessarily think her, was na- 
turally a strong one. To convince him, she was reckless as 
to the means. Besides, the fact of Fanny's refusal of a 
brilliant match, seemed to indicate an obstinacy her mother 
had little hope of conquering. And if Fanny would not 
make a good match, there was less harm in her making a 
bad one. This had some influence with her mother. 

And thus the cold, heartless woman, who would never 
have consented to "a degrading alliance," although her 
daughter's happiness depended on it, consented to it for 
the sake of a little triumph in acting. 

This would be incredible, did we not know that to such 



346 



EANTHOEPE. 



an egotist, a daughter's happiness was nothing; but a suc- 
cessful piece of acting was an intense gratification. It is 
frightful to think that there are such people, and that 
those people should be parents; but it is unfortunately too 
true. I, who paint this portrait, seriously and soberly de- 
clare that I subdue, rather than exaggerate, the colours. 
Had I drawn in all her hideousness the original who sat 
for this picture, the reader would have turned away in in- 
credulous disgust. Let him profit, if he can, from the 
feeble sketch. 



PEAL THE MARRIAGE BELLS. 347 



CHAPTER XV. 

PEAL THE MARRIAGE BELLS. 

Come home, home to my heart, thou banish'd peace ; 
Hymen shall now 

Set all his torches burning to give light 
Throughout the land. 

Ford : Lover's Melancholy. 

And now our hero's troubles are o'er. He is happy ; 
his bride stands at the altar beside him. Behind him are 
Harry and Fanny, waiting also to be united by the same 
priest. 

Privately, in Kensington Church, were these four mar- 
ried ; and seldom has any church been graced with four 
nobler beings. Isola was magnificent. The flush of 
modesty, the bride's delicious colour, had given her cheek 
that tinge which at other times it wanted, and had given 
to her calm, deep eyes, a passion and a brilliancy which 
stirred the depths of the spectator's soul. She was incom- 
parably beautiful at that moment. Kanthorpe gazed 
upon her with passionate pride ; and felt his heart too 
full, as he thought how, after so many struggles, he had 
found at length the path of peace ; how, after many wan- 
derings on the rugged highway, he had reached the 
Happy Valley. 



348 RANTHORPE. 

Only second to them in charms were Harry and Fanny. 
She looked as beautiful on that occasion to strangers, as 
she was always to those who loved her. Shy, and trem- 
blingly happy, she formed a pleasant contrast to her 
friend; and as she looked up into the noble countenance 
of her lover, and met his fond, protecting gaze, she made as 
sweet a picture of the timid gentlewoman as painter or 
poet could desire. But although there was little pomp 
displayed at the wedding, it had a splendour of its own in 
the warmth of the affections therein engaged. All our 
hero's old friends were present. Joyce looked more sunny 
than ever, and Wynton gave Isola away. Lady Theresa 
and Lady Wilmington were both stiffly present ; and an 
uncle of Fanny's, a bright, good-humoured creature, gave 
her away. 

"Were mine a female's pen, I would delight you with a 
minute and vivacious account of the whole ceremony, 
dresses and all. I would tell you how every one behaved, 
from the bride down to the pew-opener. I would intro- 
duce you to the breakfast, and its exhilarating festivity. 
In a word, I would place before you, imaginative reader, 
all that I must now leave to your imagination. But my 
pen has no such power. 



EPILOGUE. 349 



EPILOGUE. 

Then gently scan your brother man ; 

Still gentler sister woman. 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang : 

To step aside is human. 
One point must still be greatly dark— 

The moving why they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far, perhaps, they rue it. 



Burns. 



He " 4 was a man who preached from the text of his own errors ; and 
whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from seed 
sown from above, was, in fact, a scion from the root of personal suf- 
fering. 

Wordsworth (of Burns). 

RANTHORPE is now exquisitely happy. Two children 
are playing round his knees, and twining their embraces 
round his heart. Isola grows more lovely every time I 
see her, and not even maternity, and increased experience 
of the world, seem to brush off the bloom of that 
simplicity and ingenuousness which makes her a godlike 
child. Harry is also a happy husband and father ; 
and Fanny the happiest of wives, and most anxious 
of mothers. 



350 RANTHORPE. 

Ranthorpe's life is now one of activity and happiness: 
the true ideal of an author's life. He has bitterly ex- 
piated his early error ; and in that expiation recovered the 
purity and independence of mind, the confidence in his 
mission, and reliance on his means of fulfilling it, without 
which a man may indeed become rich and popular, but 
no man can become a great author. How much of his 
present serenity of mind he owes to Isola, let those answer 
who have known the gentle influence of a woman! 
Certain it is, that if those who remember his early efforts 
compare them with his later works, they may marvel at 
the delicacy and gentleness, wedded to strength and 
solidity, which present such a contrast to the turbulence, 
inequality, and exaggeration of his " Dreams of Youth," 
and " Quintus Curtius." 

He has won his spurs. His genius has begun to take 
its magnificent flight far above the reach of other wings. 
He is in his twenty-fifth year, and his genius is free to 
operate untrammelled upon the materials afforded him by 
experience. He has felt, and he has thought: he has 
dreamed, and he has suffered. He is now to " preach 
from the text of his own errors" — to make his experience 
incarnate in song. 

After many a giddy faintness, and many a sick despon- 
dency, he has reached a table land, from whence he can 
look down calmly on the path before him. He has 
walked up through mists, but has reached a certain height. 
The storms are below him. The poor attorney's clerk has 
become an honoured author. He is no longer vulgarly lion- 
ised ; he is respected and courted. His footing in society 
is no longer dependent upon the caprice of a drawing- 
room. It is the security of that intellectual power which 



EPILOGUE. 351 

forces the world to bend the knee. The poor, dreamy 
boy, self-taught, self-aided, has risen into power. 
He wields a pen. And the pen, in our age, weighs 
heavier in the social scale than the sword of a Norman 
Baron ! 



THE END. 



C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STBAND. 






S 





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